


Lost (and somehow found)

by aeroplanejelly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Families of Choice, Flashbacks, M/M, Miscommunication, OT3, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Self-Indulgent, So much angst, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Suicidal Thoughts, and much later, and then there is angst, first there is fluff, hand wavy timelines, much much later, there will come a time for comfort and emotional healing, well the comfort part comes eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-04-27 19:03:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 71,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeroplanejelly/pseuds/aeroplanejelly
Summary: Harry moves to Korea after the Battle of Hogwarts to escape the aftermath and media circus. He meets and befriends Namjoon and Jin, who promptly adopt him into the fold. His newfound peace doesn't last - his typical Potter luck strikes again, with the introduction of his soulmate(s).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The soulmate AU that nobody asked for. 
> 
> WHAT YOU NEED TO KNOW: Everyone is born with a soulmate, identifiable through your nails - your nails change colour to match the colour of your soulmate's hair (e.g. your soulmate dyes their hair blue, your nails change to match). Upon the first physical skin-to-skin touch, the soulbond flares to life. This is reflected in both parts of the bond. A platonic match will be reflected in a solid silver band along the bed of the nail, a romantic match will be reflected in a solid gold band. After a bond is formed, the planes of your nails shift to reflect the emotions of your bonded. 
> 
> SETTING: Post Battle of Hogwarts, which happened pretty much exactly as the book says minus Fred dying because I'm a little bitch and i refuse to accept that this actually happened.

Harry picks up a packet of muesli bars and pretends to check the nutritional information on the back, subtly peering up through his bangs.

The man is still there.

Tall with broad shoulders and dressed in all black, he cuts an intimidating figure against the white linoleum floors and brightly packed shelves. His pink, cotton candy hair, does little to dispel this image.

Harry has been covertly watching the other man stare with increasing frustration at two packets of rice. Even now as he watches, the other man lets out a frustrated whine and runs a hand through his completely dishevelled hair.

Harry takes a hesitant step closer, biting his lip.

He should just grab the muesli bars and walk away; it’s really none of his business.

The man’s hands clench on the bags of rice and he looks like he’s seconds away from throwing them at the ground.

_Just grab the muesli bars and walk away. Grab the muesli bars and walk away. Grab the- god damn it._

Without his direct permission, his feet have walked him to within arms reach of the stranger. He sulks internally when he notices how the other man utterly dwarfs him in height, which rude.

_Not too late to walk away. He'll figure it out, just turn around and walk out of here._  

Harry takes a moment to brutally shove the protesting part of his psyche into a box and aggressively slams the lid shut, before clearing his throat.

“Excuse me? Um, sir?” Harry says, reaching out a hand to lightly tap the other man on the shoulder.

The pink haired man jumps and whirls around to stare at him with wide, startled eyes. Harry barely restrains his flinch at the sudden movement, bringing his hand back to his body quickly.

“Uh, hi?” he tries, when the other man remains silent. “I was just wondering if you wanted some help? I couldn’t help but notice you seem kinda stuck on the rice?”

Harry rocks on his heels, fiddling with the hem of his sweater as the man does little more than gape at him in shock.

"Aren't you a little young to be shopping by yourself?" the other man finally blurts, gesturing wildly with one of the rice packets still clenched in his hands.

Harry barely resists the urge to sigh. 

Falling just short of 5"5 (a fact Hermione lords over him ruthlessly, with a lofty grace only an older sister can achieve) and with the little muscle he has (lean and compact from Quidditch and combat) thoroughly hidden by his oversized clothing, he knows he looks young. The overgrown mop of unruly curls that constitutes as his hair, forever falling into his eyes and obscuring his vision, combined with the much loved, emerald Weasley sweater (that he never quite grew into) only succeed in making him look even younger.

Harry knows this, frequently plays on it even.

_Make them underestimate you, let them play right into your hand_ s, the voice that sounds suspiciously like Ron whispers, followed by a much more stringent  _constant vigilance!_

Both pieces of advice have served him too well in the past for him to even consider changing things now. Though he could live without strangers treating him like a child. 

It's exhausting, patronizing and thoroughly annoying.

(He very pointedly does not think of twinkling blue eyes or a grandfatherly voice calling him "my boy".)

"I'm nearly 20," Harry states bluntly. "And I'm old enough to know the difference between saffron and jasmine rice, something you appear to be struggling with."

"I am not struggling!" the man splutters, an indignant red flush creeping across his cheekbones.

"My apologies," Harry says dryly. "I didn't realize that staring at two bags of rice for over 15 minutes, making increasingly loud and frustrated noises meant you had everything under control. My mistake. Since you clearly have this in hand, I'll take my leave."

Harry turns to do just that.

"No!" the other man shouts, hand darting out to grab Harry by the arm.

Harry knows he's safe, knows he's in a supermarket full of Mundanes and that he could have his wand in his hand in the time it takes him to turn around to confront the other man. 

Rationally, he knows this. 

He's safe, there's no danger here. 

Yet his body is already moving - shrug and a sharp  _twist_  to dislodge the hand gripping his arm so tightly it  _hurts_ , duck to avoid the follow up swing and pivot to get out of reach - reflexively breaking the light hold on his arm and moving away from the other man before he has consciously decided to react. He comes back to himself in time to see the other man staring at him, eyes blown wide with panic and self-recrimination. 

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" the other man blurts, hands held up in the universal sign for I mean no harm. “I didn’t mean to grab you but please don’t leave! I really do have no idea about rice and would appreciate any help you’d be willing to give.”

Harry eyes the other man as he tries to steady his breathing and galloping heart. Cupid bow lips turned down in a frown, furrowed brow over widened eyes, hunched shoulders as if to make himself seem less threatening. A tendril of magic confirms what his eyes are telling him: genuine remorse and honesty so genuine it’s almost overwhelming.

_Walk away?_ his inner voice tries, but he already knows – he’s going to help. He was doomed the minute he walked over. The stubborn part of his psyche gives one final whimper before conceding defeat.

“I’m sorry too,” Harry says out loud. “I’m not a fan of people grabbing me, but I probably overreacted. If you know what you were supposed to be cooking, I can help out with your rice situation?”

“Well,” the other man begins, one hand coming up to scrub through his hair. “That is, I don’t really know?” 

Harry feels his brows shoot up at the hesitant reply.

“It’s my anniversary tonight, and my soulmate, he’s so wonderful I wanted to cook for him,” the other man says quickly, almost as if he can sense Harry’s renewed desire to just leave him to it. 

At the word soulmate, Harry’s eyes dart to the man’s hands. He takes in the golden nail bed signifying a bonded pair but is quickly distracted by the streaming bands of bright orange ( _playfulenergetic_ , his mind translates easily) and yellow ( _joyhappiness_ ) that playfully shift and dance across the surface of the nail, speckles of baby pink ( _fondnesslove_ ) twining between the warmer hues.

He looks at his own nails, a solid, unchanging, mint green.

(He does not think about nights spent in the common room, completely surrounded by people yet consumed with loneliness. Doesn't think about how his year mates found their soulmates one by one, till he was the only one with static nails amongst the ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours and emotions. Doesn't think of a cramped cupboard under the stairs, staring at his nails and imagining what his soulmate could possibly be up to. Doesn't think of the hollow space in his chest that feels heavier and heavier every day spent without his soulmate.)

Harry is jolted out of his melancholy, when the other man continues talking, words almost falling over themselves, as if now that he’s started he can’t stop.

“He truly is wonderful, he saved my life and he makes me want to be a better man. I wanted to do something nice for him, he deserves it you know? But then I got here and I realized I know absolutely nothing about cooking, let alone something as basic as rice. I thought I could wing it but there’s so many options! Why are there so many options? Who needs this much rice? Why isn’t there just a universal option made available? Why does the rice hate me?" 

Harry blinks at the torrent of words and spares a moment to be grateful for the translation spell he activated before leaving home – his shaky grasp of the Korean language would not have held up against the literal onslaught of words and the rapid fire pace at which they were delivered, without the spell working seamlessly to translate everything into English.

_Well_ , he thinks, feeling his lips twitch in bemused amusement. That wasn’t what he was expecting at all. And he can hardly leave the poor man to order takeout when even a fool could throw together something simple if given the appropriate tools. 

“The type of rice affects the way it’s cooked and what dishes it would be suitable for,” Harry says absently, mind rapidly flicking through his mental library of recipes “You’ll develop an appreciation and understanding of the differences when you start cooking.”

Grilled chicken, side of brown rice and a green salad with balsamic vinegar dressing, he nods to himself. Simple enough for a beginner, yet tasteful and easily spruced up for a romantic dinner.

But first, he needs to check –

He looks back at the other man and rolls his eyes.

“Put those down,” he says, reaching over to snag the abused rice packets from the other’s hands. “And, tell me, does Mr Soulmate have any allergies or food preferences that you know of?” 

“He likes chicken?” the other man offers tentatively, watching as Harry quickly switches out the two packets of white rice for a packet of microwaveable brown rice.

“It’s a wholegrain and therefore contains more overall nutritional value, plus it will go better with what you’re going to be cooking. We’re going microwaveable because you’re a beginner and this way dinner won’t be ruined by burnt rice,” Harry explains, creating a list of ingredients the two are going to need.

“Also, we can work with chicken,” he says, mind already mapping out what aisles they’ll need to visit.

“We can?” the other man asks, making Harry blink and turn back to his companion.

The doubt shrouding the other’s features and the tiny flicker of hope remind him painfully of Neville.

“We can,” he says firmly. “You’re going to cook the most amazing meal for your soulmate, so help me Merlin and it’s going to wow the pants off him.”

“Namjoon,” the other man says, holding out a hand.

Harry’s brain grinds to a halt and he stares at the hand for a long moment.

“My name,” the other man—Namjoon his mind corrects, explains somewhat sheepishly. “It’s Namjoon.”

Harry feels somewhat sheepish himself at the realization they had managed to completely skip over introductions.

“Harry,” he says, reaching out to grasp the hand. “Pleasure to meet you Namjoon.”

“You have no idea how grateful I am to have met you,” Namjoon says earnestly, and Harry is almost bowled over by the sincerity.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Harry warns, reaching over to snag the sleeve of Namjoon’s jacket. “Now come on, we have a lot to cover.” 

_Harry you really need to work on controlling your saviour complex_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like Hermione tells him as he tows the other man over to the poultry aisle.

\---

Namjoon consults the piece of paper that had become his holy grail over the course of the evening.

_Put chicken into large bowl._  

_Lightly cover in rosemary, garlic, salt, pepper and lemon juice. Rub into chicken and leave to sit, while you prepare your salad and table._  

_Cut feta into small cubes, baby tomatoes in half and wash spinach leaves. Throw all into large salad bowl. Place bowl on table with dressing (balsamic vinegar) next to it._

_Set table for two, with wine glasses and a nice bottle of red._

_Return to chicken._

_Small amount of peanut oil covering base of fry pan. Wait for pan to heat. Place chicken in pan. Cover pan with tray or lid. Wait till cooked through (chicken will turn white) before flipping and replacing tray._

_Put on rice._

_Remove chicken from heat and serve._

_Good luck_

_–HP_

Namjoon hadn’t needed any luck at all. Harry’s detailed note had allowed him to move from one step to the next easily, with minimal stress and flailing. The table is set, two candles have been strategically placed for mood lighting and soft jazz is playing in the background. The salad has been prepared, the rice is steaming in a bowl and the chicken just needs to be plated.

Everything is perfect. 

A glance at the clock shows that it’s 5.55pm.

He has 5 minutes before the boys return Jin home.

_Shit._

Ditching his apron, Namjoon bolts for the stairs to the living area and scrambles into the master bedroom, stripping as he goes. Throwing his dirty clothes into a corner to deal with later, he changes into the outfit he had prepared earlier. Black slacks, white dress shirt and a woollen, charcoal cardigan. All neatly pressed and ready to go, past Namjoon was a genius and he thanks his stars he planned ahead.

He checks the time, for what feels like the millionth time and feels the first stirrings of panic.

5.57pm.

“Shit!” he curses out loud, hurriedly straightening the cuffs of his shirt and praying that the rest of his outfit looks fine. He doesn’t have any time left to spare on checking; his hair is a sad limp mess and that takes priority over clothes.

At least he’s wearing clothes, he consoles himself as he charges into the bathroom.

_Though Jin might appreciate it more if we weren’t_ , his inner voice is complete with imaginary eyebrow wiggle and Namjoon pointedly ignores it as he flings open the cupboard above the sink.

Now is  _not_ the time.

“Hair product, hair product, hair product,” he chants under his breath, riffling through the assorted junk stored in the cupboard.

“Aha!” he finally locates the bottle of dry shampoo and the tub of mousse he needs.

Grabbing the dry shampoo, he liberally applies it all over before scrubbing frantically to rub the product into his pink locks. That done, he snatches up a small amount of mousse and runs it through the top of his hair, calming the dishevelled mess to something more along the lines of artfully tousled.

A nonverbal whine is torn from his throat, as a time check reveals he’s run out of time. 

_Shitshitshitshitshit_ , his thoughts chant, as he casts about feverishly for the cologne Jin loves.

_There!_  

He grabs the bottle and spritzes it haphazardly over himself, before dashing back out and flinging himself down the stairs, slipping and sliding on the hard timbre floorboards but not caring because _there’s no time!_ He’s just cleared the doorway, when a soft  _ping!_ notifies him that he has a message, quickly followed by the tell-tale jingle jangle of keys by the front door.

A quick glance at his phone’s screen shows a message from Taehyung:  _t_ _he prince has been returned, on time as promised! Treat him like the royalty he is hyung! <3_ 

Show time.

“Joonie, I’m home,” he hears Jin sing, as the front door swings open.

“In here Jin,” he calls back, nervously straightening the (already perfect) cutlery on the table. 

“Something smells delicious, did you order in?” Namjoon can hear rustling in the foyer, can imagine his soulmate toeing off his shoes and slipping out of his jacket.

“Not quite,” Namjoon says, eyeing the spread on the table.

"Wha-" Jin stops in the entryway of the kitchen, eyes blown wide.

"Happy anniversary?" Namjoon tries to smile winningly, but it feels like more of a grimace. His hands are damp with sweat as he waits for his soulmate’s reaction.

"Joonie," Jin raises a shaking hand to his mouth and Namjoon can see the dark green and arctic blue reflecting his own anxiety and excitement on his soulmate’s nails. "Did you do all this?"

As Jin takes in the room, Namjoon takes a moment to peak at his own nails. They’re an array of colour, arctic blue with shocks of poisonous yellow that is rapidly being taken over by a more joyful and bold yellow, threads of gold and bubble-gum pink chasing away the blue.

He’s done well.

“I had a little bit of help,” Namjoon confesses, moving forward now that he’s sure of his welcome, to pull his soulmate into his arms. “Happy anniversary love.”

Jin melts into his embrace, leaning forward to press warm lips softly against his own. Namjoon presses forward, deepening the kiss, tongue peaking out to caress and taste, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his soulmate’s head. Their movements are slow and languid, mutual love and affection almost a tangible force that builds and surges with every movement. He only pulls back when oxygen becomes a pressing concern, reluctantly and slowly easing back to detach their lips. Their bodies remain tightly twined and Namjoon takes the momentary reprieve to rest his forehead against Jin’s and breathe. They rest against each other, the moment stretching out into what feels like eternity, just the two of them in their own little bubble, standing together in their living room, totally entwined and content to just share air and space.

“Hi,” Namjoon whispers, mouth stretching into a dopey grin, ridiculously happy.

He watches Jin’s chocolate orbs shine with love and laughter and his heart is so full with adoration that he almost  _aches_  with it.

“Hi back,” Jin ducks forward to plant a peck on his lips before pulling back quickly. “Come on you, let’s enjoy this feast you’ve cooked for me.”

Namjoon tries to reel him back in, long arms shooting forward, but the blonde is quicker, dancing out of reach with a laugh.

“Tease,” Namjoon knows the overwhelming love he has for this man bleeds into his tone, turning the accusation into something fond and adoring.

The saucy wink Jin throws him as the other man sits, confirms as much.

“Tell me how you pulled this off,” Jin demands, as he makes his way over to the table. 

“I met a boy,” Namjoon confesses, sitting down across from Jin.

“A boy?” Jin says, and Namjoon looks over to see his soulmate wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at him.

A snort of laughter bubbles out of him before he can stop himself, only to turn into full-blown laughter at Jin’s mock look of affront that morphs into bemused concern the longer he takes to get himself under control.

“Sorry Jinnie,” Namjoon says still chuckling, even as he reaches over to plate up his soulmate’s meal. “But when I say boy, I mean actual boy. He looked like he was 12, but he assured me he was nearly 20. And his eyes,” the words come out slowly, as he muses out loud. “His eyes were far too old for a child.” 

“And where did you meet this boy-child?” Jin asks, eyes sharp, yet gaze openly curious.

“At the grocery store,” Namjoon says, before biting the bullet and admitting the rest, “he saw me freaking out over rice and offered advice and a recipe after I word vomited about how wonderful you were and how much you deserved the literal world for putting up with me.”

Wheezing laughter fills the air and Namjoon watches his soulmate’s body bow under the force of his mirth, a tendril of warmth unfurling in his stomach.

God he loves this man. 

“Yeah yeah, laugh it up, you giant dork,” he says, eyes soft and warm, even as he rolls his eyes at Jin’s antics.

“Joonie, you’re the dork,” Jin giggles, raising his hand to cover his mouth. “You accosted this poor boy over rice—” the other man is forced to stop talking as he’s once again overcome with laughter.

“I didn’t accost him!” Namjoon protests half-heartedly, too happy that Jin is happy to really take offense.

Jin laughs in his face, “You totally accosted him, babe.”

Namjoon pouts, scooping up a mouthful of chicken.

“He approached me,” Namjoon says, inwardly wincing at the whine that is creeping into his voice. 

Jin abruptly stops laughing and sits up straight. “Did he know who you are?”

Namjoon blinks. 

He’d been so caught up in the stress of organizing their anniversary dinner that he honestly hadn’t given much thought to the interaction. A spike of alarm lances through him when he considers the implications of the question and he hurriedly casts his mind back to the grocery store, running through the whole interaction.

“I don’t think so?” Namjoon says slowly, thinking of the hesitant approach, the way the boy had tried to flee when startled, the complete lack of recognition when he mentioned his name. “He didn’t act like we’ve come to expect from ARMY, and he didn’t react at all when I gave my name.”

“Was he Korean?” Jin presses, and Namjoon knows what he’s thinking. As the band has gotten more media coverage and their fan base has grown, they’ve been hard pressed to go anywhere in Korea without being identified. Whilst they have small pockets of fans across the globe, the band is still mostly an unknown entity outside of Korea, though Namjoon hopes their next album will change that. A local would have recognized him, but acted like they hadn’t to potentially get closer to the band, but a foreigner would have a legitimate excuse to _not_ know who he is. Namjoon tries to ignore the voice in his head that calls him conceited for thinking so clinically and assuming that he’d be identifiable by sight, if not name. He knows that this is the simple reality of being an idol, but it’s sometimes hard to believe that  _he’s_ an idol now.

“He didn’t  _look_  Korean,” Namjoon pauses as he tries to find a diplomatic way to say the next bit. “He had a deep natural tan and the brightest green eyes I have ever seen. Also, he spoke fluent Korean, but his words had a strong accent? I think he might have been British? Oh!” he adds as he remembers, “His name was Harry.” 

“We don’t have a large following in Britain,” Jin muses, collapsing back against his chair with a sigh of relief. “You might have just found yourself a regular Good Samaritan.”

Namjoon finds himself mimicking the other’s body language automatically. His shoulders fall out of the tight line they’d straightened into, relieving the strain and tension he hadn’t been aware of until it was gone.

“I want to meet him,” Jin says into the sudden silence.

“I don’t exactly have his number Jin,” Namjoon points out dryly. “What are you going to do, stake out the grocery store until you bump into him?”

“Oh that’s a good plan,” Jin hums, taking a sip of wine. “I might just do that.”

Namjoon inhales sharply and then regrets everything as the rice he just placed in his mouth hits his lungs. Coughing and hacking, he smacks at his chest with a fist to dislodge the granules of rice. When he no longer feels like he’s about to die an unglamorous death by rice, he glares over at his soulmate through streaming eyes.

“You’re supposed to eat the rice Joonie, not inhale it,” Jin says serenely, raising a brow at him over his chopsticks.

“Jin!” he splutters, swiping at the moisture that had gathered on his cheeks during his impromptu coughing fit.

“Joon,” Jin singsongs, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips.

Namjoon gapes at his soulmate, struggling to find a way to explain to his crazy,  _insane_  soulmate that that would be a  _bad_ idea.

“That wasn’t an actual plan Jin!” he finally says, voice hoarse from his frantic coughing. “You can’t just stalk the poor boy down at the grocery store!”

“Why not?” Jin counters, tilting his head in challenge.

“Why not?” Namjoon echoes incredulously. “Because stalking is bad Jin!”

“Calm yourself Joon, I’m not going to  _stalk_  the boy,” Jin says, making Namjoon sigh in relief. 

“I’m just going to ensure that I am at the grocery store at times that I suspect he may also frequent the store and if I bump into him, coincidence is a funny thing right?” Jin adds, smiling charmingly when Namjoon looks up in horror.

“Jin no,” Namjoon says, knowing a losing battle when he sees one but feeling compelled to protest this plan on the grounds that this plan is actually crazy, not to mention bordering on illegal.

Their managers would flip if they knew what Jin was planning.

“Jin yes,” Jin says, with a wicked grin. 

Namjoon fiercely regrets opening his mouth. 

\---

Jin looks down at his watch.

5.00pm. 

Perfect, he thinks, scooping up his wallet and keys.

“I’m off to meet Harry!” he announces, striding into the lounge room.

“Jin, seriously, it’s been a week,” Namjoon says, looking up from his tablet with an exasperated roll of his eyes. “Don’t you think if he was going to go back to the grocery store he would have already? How long are you going to keep doing this?”

“Today’s the day Joonie, I feel it in my bones,” Jin says, and he’s not joking. He feels confident, like today is his day, like he could literally do anything.

“You know it's highly likely that he won't be there, right? Like, more than 25.6 million people live in Seoul? And the likelihood of bumping into one specific person by visiting a grocery store they frequented once is tiny?” Namjoon eyes him carefully as he says it, gaze cautious, watching his reaction closely. He says it almost tentatively, like he wants to ensure Jin is being realistic with his expectations so that he doesn’t get too upset if Harry is a no-show, but trying to make sure he doesn’t hurt Jin’s feelings by pointing out the facts of the situation.

Jin feels a rush affection for his goof of a soulmate.

Crossing the room in three quick strides, he leans down and drags his soulmate into a passionate kiss. Just as quickly he pulls back and grins at the dazed look on Namjoon’s face. 

“I love you,” Jin says simply and knows the grin on his face must match the goofy one on Namjoon’s face.

“I love you back,” Namjoon replies, tilting his head and making his floppy hair fall to one side, revealing the tanned skin of his forehead. 

Jin smirks suddenly, filled with wicked intent.

“Jin, what—” Namjoon begins to say, expression filling with trepidation, breaking off with a shout as Jin gives in to his mischievous impulse and ducks forward to plant a sloppy, wet kiss on the other’s forehead. 

“Jin!” Namjoon protests, both hands coming up to swipe ineffectually at his face.

“I thought you loved me Joonie-babe,” Jin says, laughter bubbling up and brimming over at the epic pout sent his way. 

“I take it back, I hate you,” Namjoon grumbles, still swiping at his face, even as he pouts aggressively.

“Love you back babe,” Jin croons, lips twitching as he tries to tame the wild grin on his face.

God he loves this man. 

“Just go to the grocery store already,” Namjoon finally stops fussing over his face, and shoves him none too gently towards the door.

“I’m going, I’m going,” Jin laughs, letting himself be propelled towards the front door. “I’ll be back soon bonded-mine.”

In the hallway, he pauses to slip his shoes on, patting down his pockets to make sure he has everything.

_Wallet, phone, keys_ , he checks each item off his mental list as he locates them on his person and nods.

He’s ready.

He places one hand on the door handle and hears hurried footsteps behind him. Within the space of one heartbeat to the next, arms are winding their way around his waist, reeling him in for a backwards hug, a broad chest plastering up against his back.

“You drive me crazy,” Namjoon mutters, nuzzling into the side of Jin’s neck. “I adore you even when you slobber on me. Be safe and come back soon.”

Jin relaxes back into the broad chest and snuggles close.

“I love you back. I’ll be home before you know it,” Jin promises.

“See that you are,” Namjoon rumbles, arms tightening for a moment before releasing him with a sigh. 

Jin spins around the moment he can and smiles beatifically at his soulbonded.

“See you soon,” he says, sealing the promise with a kiss. 

He intended to keep the kiss chaste and light, but Namjoon takes the opportunity to draw him closer, pressing him up against the front door, tilting his head slightly to deepen the kiss, sucking gently on his bottom lip. Jin hears himself whimper, but can’t bring himself to care, pressing closer and reaching up to bury a hand in the soft strands of pink hair at the nape of his bonded’s neck. Jin’s entire world narrows down to the points of bodily contact between them. Arms cage him in, hips and strong thighs pin him to the door, lips nuzzle and bite and drive him to complete distraction.

All too quickly, Namjoon is disengaging, pulling a whine from Jin who makes grabby hands at his bonded, trying to get him to come back here damn it so he can resume the kissing. Namjoon laughs, a husky rumbling sound that sends butterflies soaring deep in his stomach, and he dodges back out of reach of Jin’s grasping hands.

“Have fun at the store babe,” Namjoon says, dark eyes hooded, a smug grin tugging at his kiss-reddened lips. He blows Jin a kiss, before turning on his heel and walking away.

Jin can do nothing but stand there in shock as his bonded saunters back to the lounge room, a distinct swagger to his step. 

“Rude!” he shouts when he finally collects his thought enough to react.

Deep laughter greets his comment, and Jin hides a smile as he ducks out the front door. The buoyant, light and happy feeling stays with him the entire way to the grocery store. He slips through the sliding doors easily, dodging neatly around a businessman whose attention is completely absorbed by the phone in his hand, and stops short when his ears are immediately assaulted by the furious shrieking of a child.

Looking around, he spots a harried mother standing near the self-checkout, one hand desperately rocking a pram containing the source of the noise, the other buried firmly in the shirt of a child, probably preschool age, who is doing their best to wiggle free and make a break for the candy bars located at the counters. The other patrons are side-eyeing the poor woman, muttering under their breath, and even from where he’s standing he can see the tears of frustration and humiliation building in the mother’s eyes.

A frown tugs at his lips, that wont do.

He makes his way over to woman who eyes him warily, so he smiles at her reassuringly before sinking into a crouch next to the squirming child.

“Hey there,” he says, making sure to keep his voice gentle and calm.

The child stops fighting against their mother and stares at him, brown eyes squinted suspiciously.

“What want,” the child demands, crossing their arms across the happy yellow sun depicted on their shirt.

The child looks as fierce as a fluffy kitten and Jin just barely manages to squash the urge to coo at the adorable sight. 

“Kim Hyeon!” the mother scolds, shaking the girl gently by the back of her shirt.

“It’s alright ma’am,” Jin says from his position on the floor, grinning up at the woman, the lack of manners from the child hardly bothering him. Heaven knows he was a brat as a child. “I was wondering if Hyeon-ah would like a sucker?”

He pulls the lollipop he had been hiding from Namjoon out of his pocket with a flourish and watches the girl’s eyes widen.

“Please!” the girl begs, leaning forward on her toes, hands clasped under her chin, eyes practically sparkling.

Jin almost caves, severely tempted to just hand over the lollipop straight away, those eyes were lethal. But he remembers his plan at the last minute, and sticks to his guns. 

“Hyeon-ah, I’ll give you this sucker on one condition,” he bargains, waving the lollipop enticingly to keep her attention.

“What conition?” Hyeon says, eyes narrowing suspiciously, stumbling slightly over the longer word.

“Well, it seems to me that your mum is working really hard to finish the grocery shopping so you can have yummy snacks and food when you get home,” Jin says solemnly and Hyeon shots a guilty look up at her mother, who has managed to quieten her younger sibling and has loaded her groceries into the pram during the short interaction, and is now watching the pair of them with a bemused little smile.

_Mothers are terrifying,_ Jin decides and vows to ring his mother later and tell her how much he appreciates her in his life. Out loud he says, “So in return for the lollipop, I was wondering if you could act like the little helper I know you are and work hard for your mum until you get home.” 

“I’ll be the best helper ever!” Hyeon swears, nodding her head earnestly in agreement to his terms. 

“I know you will be!” Jin gives her a crinkled eyed smile and hands over the lollipop with a little flourish.

“Thanks mister!” Hyeon shoots him a gummy smile and Jin feels his heart melt.

“You’re most welcome Hyeon-ah!” Jin beams. “You have a delightful daughter, ma’am,” he adds, standing up and addressing the mother for the first time. “I hope you don’t mind me interfering but it looked like you could use a hand.”

“Thank you,” the woman says, gratitude infusing her voice.

“It wasn’t a problem at all,” Jin reassures her, stepping back and gesturing for her to precede him out of the checkout.

“Mama I'm gonna be the bestest helper in the world!” little Hyeon skips forward, tucking her hand into her mother’s.

“I don’t doubt it,” her mother replies, smiling gently down at her daughter. “Now say goodbye to the nice young man so he can do his own shopping.”

“Bye mister!” Hyeon shouts, waving so exuberantly she almost topples over.

“Goodbye Hyeon-ah, be good for your mother,” Jin calls back, not bothering to hide the laughter that bubbles up at the little girls antics.

He watches till they exit the shop, waving at Hyeon when she turns back around to look at him, before turning to grab a basket to begin his own shopping. Basket on one arm, he steps forward, keeping his eyes peeled for a mane of curly black hair.

Over the week he had pressed Namjoon for all the details he could remember about Harry, their mysterious Good Samaritan. Namjoon had indulged him and described in great detail everything from the boy’s physical features right down to the scuffed shoes and much loved woollen sweater he’d been wearing that day. Jin was confident he’d be able to identify him in a crowd.

Humming lightly to himself, Jin selects an isle at random and makes his way along, picking up items for the boys that have a tendency to descend upon his flat at any given time. As he turns to enter the next isle, he nearly trips over his own feet, and is saved from an unsightly collision with the cold linoleum floor by the power of god and the steadying shelving conveniently placed within arms distance.

Huffing slightly, he straightens, eyes glued to the petite figure at the end of the isle. The long tubes of fluorescent lights in the cold meats and cheeses section throw the figure into sharp relief, glinting off the curly mop of hair the shade of a raven’s wing, and highlighting the speckles of gold hidden in the emerald green sweater.

His gut says that he’s found their Good Samaritan, but the rationale part of his brain, the one that sounds discerningly like Namjoon, insists that that it’s illogical, improbable and impossible.

He couldn’t possibly be this lucky.

But it seems he is

He edges closer, trying to discern more features that would confirm or negate his theory, but the figure doesn’t turn around, seemingly engrossed with the items filling the shelves directly in front of them.

Finally, when there’s a mere three feet separating them, Jin gathers his courage, mentally crosses his fingers and calls out a soft, hesitant, “Harry-ah?” 

The figure visibly flinches, before spinning around, arms hugged tight to their body and shoulders hunching defensively.

Jin is startled when wide, fearful green eyes, dwarfed by large metal glasses and set in a too thin face, meet his.

_And his eyes … they were far too old for a child_.

Jin finds himself agreeing with Namjoon.

Because behind the fear and the obvious wariness, is a surprising amount of calculation, determination and an air of weariness that seems to cling to the boy despite his youthful experience. 

“Who are you?” the boy – Jin finds it hard to think of him as anything but when he takes in the floppy hair falling into expressive green eyes and the way his sweater dwarfs him, slipping off one shoulder and covering his hands completely – asks.

“My name’s Jin. You don’t know me but you met my soulmate last week,” Jin says and is grateful to see a flicker of recognition and the way the boy relaxes slightly from his defensive position.

“Namjoon?” the boy says, a hint of a grin tugging at his lips. “How’d he go with the chicken?”

“That was the best cooked meal I have had in a long time,” Jin confesses. “Thank you for helping my goof of a soulmate and for the wonderful recipe.” 

“I couldn’t just leave him there with the rice,” Harry says with a bashful kind of smile and Jin has a sudden urge to wrap him in a hug. 

“But you could have, most people would have,” Jin gently presses, making the other boy flush and shake his head vehemently in protest, wild curls flying with the rapid movement.

“I didn’t do anything except give him a little nudge in the right direction,” Harry says firmly, expression set and eyes firm.

Jin decides right then and there that he’s keeping him. 

The boy is too precious for this world and needs to be protected.

“Well that nudge turned my disaster-in-the-kitchen of a soulmate into a Masterchef and you have my undying love and appreciation for that fact alone,” Jin announces, delighting in the abashed little grin that Harry tries to hide by ducking his head but he manages to catch.

“And to thank you,” Jin continues, “I want you to come to dinner.”

Harry gapes at him for a moment, before blurting, “You want me to what?”

“I want you to come to dinner so I can properly thank you,” Jin says.

“But I didn’t do anything?” Harry sounds so tentative, as if he doesn’t want to upset Jin by pointing this out. But how could Jin even think of being mad when Harry stepped in and helped his soulmate when Jin couldn’t. Also, Jin has tried to teach Namjoon to cook many times since they’ve met, each ending in disaster enough to convince Jin to never try doing so again. As far as Jin is concerned, Harry has managed something just short of a miracle. 

“Please let me treat you to dinner?” Jin says, trying a different tack when it becomes clear that Harry feels deeply uncomfortable with the praise. “You really left an impression on Namjoon and I know he’d be delighted to see you again.”

Harry searches his face. Jin tries to keep his face as open and genuine as possible, trying to project his sincerity, and lets Harry look until he’s satisfied.

“If you’re sure?” Harry says finally, worrying at his lip with his teeth.

“I’m positive!” Jin reassures the boy with a warm smile. “We usually eat around seven but you’re welcome to swing by whenever you’re ready! Do you have a phone? I’ll text you our address."

Jin feels slightly bad for pressuring the boy, but he wants this badly and he has a feeling that without the gentle bullying the boy would gracefully decline the invitation.

Harry fishes out a beat up flip phone from his pocket and Jin makes grabby hands until he hands it over. Jin saves his contact information and sends himself a text before handing the device back over.

“So I’ll see you around 7 then,” Jin beams at the other boy.

“Around 7,” Harry echoes, clutching his phone with a slightly dazed expression.

“I’ll see you then Harry,” Jin waves his hand jauntily before turning quickly on his heel and striding away before Harry has a chance to change his mind.

When he’s safely an isle over, he whips out his own phone and shoots of two texts. One’s to Harry with the promised address. The other is to his soulbonded and simply reads: _g_ _uess who I found and is now coming to dinner? Spoiler alert, it starts with H and ends with arry ;)_

Sliding his phone away with a smug grin, Jin sets off again, this time with a spring in his step.

He has a dinner to plan.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione glances up at the sound of the front door latching shut and huffs in frustration.

 _Bloody hair,_ she thinks.

Several thick strands of hair have somehow managed to escape the tight ponytail she had piled her mane of chestnut curls into earlier, and are now cascading across her face, obscuring her vision. Reaching up, she jerks the tight corkscrew curls behind her ears, thanking the gods that the vast majority of her mane is still contained by the thick hair elastic secured at the top of her head. Hair dealt with for the moment, she is finally able to check the entrance, and is just able to make out Harry standing in the doorway, looking somewhat dazed.

“Everything alright?” she calls out.

Instinct, long honed to a fine edge, urges her to ensure her hands are free, enabling her to summon her wand at any moment. She doubts there is any real danger here. The apartment had been warded so extensively by all three of them upon arrival that nothing short of a Fiendfyre would have even a chance of making a mark on it – she would know, she tested the wards that first night and they had held under the onslaught of her entire spell, jinx and curse repertoire (the length of which is nothing to scoff at). The scorch mark on the far wall from the Fiendfyre remains impervious to any form of repair magiks but the boys had refused to let her paint over it using more mundane methods. Ron had gone as far as to state that they should frame the mark, the muppet.

And yet.

Her instincts are something she has spent too long listening to, too long relying on. For too long they had been the only thing that had ensured her survival, for too long they had been the difference near misses and brushes with death for her to ever comfortably ignore them outright.

Casually, she leans forward, placing both her book ( _Making the Connection: Arithmancy and Ancient Runes)_ and cup of green tea on the coffee table in front of her, and then resettles into the fluffy cushions of the couch. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her bonded jerk to attention at the sound of her voice, hands poised over the chessboard in front of him, but laser focus turned towards the doorway.

“Harry?” Ron says, sitting upright. As always, her bonded wears his heart on his sleeve, the concern he feels painted across his face and as clear to her as the dark pine green ( _concernworryanxiety_ ) currently flooding her nails.

“I’m fine,” Harry says, sounding bemused, almost as if he was questioning the validity of the statement. He steps fully into the room and makes his way over to the armchair across from her, folding into the plush cushions with a deep sigh.

Hermione shares a look with Ron. 

Harry would say he was fine even if he was bleeding profusely and in dire need of medical attention. Has in fact done this, on more than one occasion. Best to investigate further.

“How was the grocery store?” Hermione asks casually, tucking her legs under her and settling more comfortably into her chair.

“Good,” Harry hums, an almost distracted air about him. “I bumped into Jin,” he adds, peeking up through his fringe to check their reaction.

“Jin?” Ron says, brow scrunching at the unfamiliar name.

Hermione feels her own brow furrow in thought. The name rings a bell, _where has she heard that before?_ It niggles at her and she cheats a little, flexing her Occlumency shields.

Wait, surely its not, “Lover boy’s soulmate? From a week ago?” she clarifies.

“Yup,” Harry confirms, still looking adorably confused. “He invited me to dinner.”

“To dinner?” Ron says, pushing away from the chessboard and coming over to perch on the armchair of her chair. “Whatever for?”

“Apparently he wants to thank me for helping Namjoon out during ‘his moment of crisis’” Harry says, pulling a face. Ron pulls a similar face, evidently as confused and put out as Harry by the perceived oddity, and Hermione can’t help but roll her eyes at the pair of them.

 _Boys,_ she thinks fondly, _so hopeless._  

“Well I personally think that it’s lovely,” she says out loud. Both boys turn to stare somewhat incredulously at her. “It’ll be good for you to get out of the house and meet more people, and it sounds like these ones are nice. 

“Did they seem like they, you know,” Ron says, gesturing in the general direction of Harry’s forehead. “Know?”

Harry frowns, considering, “I don’t think so? I approached Namjoon, not the other way around, and while we spoke, he didn’t look at my forehead once. Jin _did_ approach me, but he clarified straight away that the only reason he did so was because of my interaction with Namjoon.”

“So they’re mundanes then,” Hermione says, mind whirling through the potential scenarios. “We should run a background check just to be safe, see if anything pops up.”

“Already on it,” Ron says, scrolling through pages of data on his phone.

“Guys, I hardly think a security check is necessary, they’re _mundanes_ not Death Eaters,” Harry tries to protest. Hermione thinks it’s cute that he still thinks that will work.

Potter luck being what it is, security checks are a _always_ a necessity.

“Harry, is this your Namjoon?” Ron says, holding out his phone. On the screen is a picture of a young man. Strong jawline, dimpled cheeks and bright candy floss pink hair, Hermione catalogues before glancing over to check Harry’s expression. 

“Yes,” Harry says immediately.

“And is this Jin?” Ron asks, flicking to another photo.

Blonde hair, pouty lips, handsome face, would make a handsome couple when paired with Namjoon, Hermione clinically identifies, before turning to check on Harry.

“Yes,” Harry says again, slower this time. “How did you find their pictures so fast? I only told you their first names.”

“Both are apparently in a boy band,” Ron says, squinting at his phone screen. “Called BTS. There are five other members and apparently they’re quite popular.”

“Of course they are,” Harry groans, burying his face in his knees.

Hermione frowns up at Ron for his tactless delivery. Her bonded grimaces apologetically and shrugs, which she interprets as a _he was going to find out eventually._  

Which true, but now it's time for some damage control. 

“I still think this could work,” she says. “Think of it this way, they’ll already be familiar with the pitfalls of fame and notoriety and you’ll be able to bond over crazy fans.”

“I am _not_ telling them that I’m the bloody Boy Who Lived,” Harry lifts his head long enough to tell her forcefully, before disappearing back into his knees.

“I didn’t say you should do that,” Hermione retorts, barely containing an eye roll at the melodramatics. “There _is_ still the Statute to think about. I meant more that you have shared life experiences that should make relating to them easier.”

“And it's just dinner mate,” Ron adds, “If you don’t enjoy yourself, it’s an hour, maybe two tops, of your life that you will never get back. Which is the equivalent of a horrible double of History with Binns and we sat through our fair share of those and turned out okay.”

Hermione feels the need to point out, “Neither of you actually paid those classes any attention. I was the one who had to suffer through the droning monotone whilst you two goofed off or caught up on sleep.”

“But we still attended in a show of solidarity and support that Gryffindor himself would have been proud of,” Ron counters with a grin.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Hermione tells him, but the fond smile tugging at her lips betrays the amusement she feels. “And,” she adds, using finger quotations to highlight her scepticism, “ _braving_ history class of all things, is hardly something to be proud of.”

“Ridiculously attractive maybe,” Ron neatly ignores the second half of her statement, puffing out his chest and flexes his arm muscles. Hermione eyes his flexing biceps, appreciating the way lean corded muscle goes taut under pale freckled skin, _mmm yes please_. She’s never cared for Quidditch but the conditioning alone is worth the nail biting stress of watching her boys performing insanely dangerous stunts hundreds of feet in the air. Ron catches her looking and smirks, waggling his eyebrows suggestively and she can’t help the snort that bursts from her at sight.

“The pair of you are ridiculously disgusting,” Harry mutters, his voice makes her start and sit up guiltily. Turning, she finds he has finally emerged from his knees and is now glowering sulkily at them. “I’m going to this dinner to get away from the two of you before you give me diabetes." 

“Aw, don’t be like that mate,” Ron says. “You know we love you too, don’t be jealous.” He puckers his lips and makes exaggerated kissing noises in Harry’s general direction, making Harry scrunch up his face in disgust.

Hermione doesn’t bother trying to restrain her eye roll this time and reaches out a hand to smack Ron in the chest, “Stop it Ron.”

“Ow! Bloody hell woman!” Ron whines. 

Hermione stares pointedly at her bonded, one brow ticked, _really?_  

Ron rubs a hand over the spot she hit, an outraged and pained expression on his face, but a quick peek down at her hands betrays him when she spots the warm golden yellow ( _amused_ ) infused with streaks of orange ( _playfulmischievous_ ) saturating her nails. Hermione lets her expression soften, let’s the depth of her affection for her bonded peak through, and watches Ron’s nails flood a solid gold ( _loveaffectionadoration_ ). 

Leaning more fully into Ron’s side, she turns back to Harry, who’s watching them with barely hidden affection of his own, and Hermione has never been more thankful that Harry has only ever looked on their bond with the deepest fondness and affection. Never has the younger boy regarded the pair of them with jealousy, envy or worse, felt like he was lesser to them because he wasn’t part of their soulbond. She adores this boy, with all of her heart and is so glad he accepts both herself and her bond with Ron, with the ease that he does.

Hermione makes sure that Harry’s eyes are on hers, that he understands how serious she is before she says, “Harry we adore you, you know we do. And if you really don’t want to go, you don’t have to. It’s completely your choice and we’ll back your play completely either way. But if you’re hesitating because you don’t want to expose mundanes to our level of crazy then I really think you should reconsider and remember exactly where you are and who you’re with.”

“The middle of Korea, 5336 miles from any and all blood-purists that we left back home, with your two bestest friends in the whole wide world who would kick the ass of anyone who so much as looked at you funny,” Ron supplies helpfully and Hermione doesn’t even blink as she reaches over and smacks him again.

Harry swallows hard, an overwhelming fondness for his two closest and dearest friends threatening to drown him.

“I’ll go,” Harry says, “It’s just dinner, how hard could it be?”

“That’s the spirit Harry!” Hermione beams.

“Yeah, after you off a Dark Lord, everything else seems like a stroll in the park doesn’t it?” Ron says, drawing a scandalised “ _Ron!”_ from Hermione. 

Harry leans back in his chair and lets the laughter bubbling in his chest spill out.

\---

Hours later, Harry hovers on the pavement and curses himself for jinxing things.

 _Go to dinner they said. It’ll be fun they said. How hard could it_ possibly _be they said._  

He fiercely regrets everything. 

Earlier, when his wand had announced through vibrations that he had reached his destination, he had ducked off the path, just enough to not obstruct the flow of foot traffic streaming past in droves. Now, he lingers outside, staring up at the imposing door in front of him. Biting his lip, he pulls up the text message from Jin again, rereading the short text he had memorized. The address remains unchanged: apartment 11528, Hannam-dong, Yongsan-gu, Seoul. The cheery yellow emoji Jin had pasted in directly after the address judges him, winking jauntily at him, laughing at how he dithers, nerves twisting his insides into knots.                         

The door looms ahead.

It’s a nice door, Harry notes distractedly.

And it is.

Nice that is.

It’s made out of wood, solid and sanded back to a reveal a fine grain that’s been protected by a shiny finish. Two symmetrical panels have been carved into the timber and intricate designs whittled by a steady hand march up the ridges in the wood. Gleaming gold numbering, proudly announce the apartment to be 11528, and artfully offset the worn door handle.

And yet no matter how nice the door is, it doesn’t change the fact that his brain keeps insisting that he’s got the wrong address. 

_What if I have the wrong address? What if I knock and some stranger opens the door? What if the Point Me spell has gotten the wrong apartment? What if I read the apartment number wrong? What if I went down the wrong street?_

The thoughts, no matter how unfounded, persist and swirl with the contents of his stomach, his gut clenching unpleasantly as his nerves roil and flutter. Until this moment, Harry had never thought a door could be intimidating, and yet, here he stands, frozen, unable to make those last few steps.

A time check reveals that it’s 6.59pm.

 _Damn it_.

He’s dithered too long and if he doesn’t do something he’s going to be officially late. Grimacing, Harry slides his phone back into his pocket and summons all of his Gryffindor courage.

It’s now or never.

Striding forward, dodging nimbly around his fellow pedestrians, he makes his way over to, and up, the small flight of stairs leading to the door. His eyes scan over the building, alighting on the golden numbering for a brief moment (still 11528, still at the right apartment, still in the right place) pointedly ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind that even now is jabbering, wondering if he’s in the right place and focusing on another issue.

No doorbell. 

 _That’s fine_ , Harry reasons, working on keeping his breathing even and eyeing the door in front of him. _Knocking is a thing I am capable of_.

Squashing down the urge to check his phone once more, and, before he loses his nerve, Harry raises his hand to rap smartly on the door. Shortly, he is able to make out the sound of footsteps approaching and then the door is opening and Jin is there, a beaming smile gracing his handsome features when he sees who it is on his doorstep.

“Harry-ah!” Jin exclaims. “You made it! Come in, come in!”

Harry feels the tension he hadn’t even noticed building in his shoulders disappear, the irrefutable proof that he was at the right address coupled with Jin’s clear delight at seeing him being enough to chase off the last of his nerves. Jin ushers him inside quickly, showing him where he can hang his coat and stow his shoes. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jin says, when Harry has gotten himself situated. “But the kids came home earlier than I anticipated and will be joining us for dinner, if that’s okay?” 

 _Kids?_ Harry hadn’t thought either Namjoon or Jin were old enough to have children but knowing that they’re home, he would never feel right kicking them out. If the Weasley’s taught him anything, it’s that family looks after their own and where dinner is concerned, the age old adage ‘the more the merrier’ had always applied. Harry doesn’t see why the same can’t apply here.

“I don’t mind at all,” he hastens to reassure, following Jin down a corridor. The cream walls on either side of him, combined with the high ceilings and large chandelier hanging from the ceiling, make the hallway warm and inviting. The photographs lining the walls make the space feel like a home rather than the studio apartment it clearly is. 

“Oh good,” Jin sounds relieved. “I’ll make sure they behave and don’t pester you too much. Through here Harry-ah!”

Jin ushers Harry through the doorway and into a sizeable, open-planned living space. The high ceilings from the hallways continue through into the living area, the open-design allowing a peek into the upper bedrooms through glass paneling that has been topped with dark wooden railings. A trail of hanging lights line the ceiling, but are hardly needed, with the large floor to ceiling window prominently taking up a large portion of the far wall. A grey couch settee and sofa combination neatly section off an entertainment area and Harry can see a young man, who looks to be his age, perched on a matching armchair, focusing intently on the TV screen, jabbing aggressively at a controller. His attention is quickly redirected by a screech and he turns in time to see a blur of red tackle a boy with burnt orange hair to the ground, where a scuffle promptly breaks out, both boys trying to gain the upper hand.

“Boys!” Jin claps loudly, making the tousling pair on the floor pause and glance up. The young man playing video games never pauses his movements, but does tilt his head in Jin’s direction, a subtle indication that he’s listening. “This is Harry. Behave and treat him well while I finish dinner.”

Jin’s tone is no-nonsense and it’s clear he expects to be obeyed. Harry is strongly reminded of Mrs. Weasley, and something in his chest _loosens_ when he pictures his surrogate mother in her element, barking out orders and conducting the pure chaos that lived and _breathed_ in her familial home.

“Yes hyungie,” the boy on the couch says distractedly, still focused completely on the screen in front of him. The two boys on the floor also chorus affirmatives before going back to trying to squish the others' face into the carpet.

“Harry-ah,” Jin turns on a dime and Harry jolts to attention. “Jungkook is the one behaving himself on the couch, Taehyung is the redhead on the floor along with Jimin.”

“When you said your kids were here for dinner, I pictured people much …” here Harry lets his voice drift off, as he gestures helpless at the room at large. 

“Younger?” Jin supplies helpfully with a rueful grin. “Despite their actual ages, they behave more like unruly children than adults, so I feel justified in calling them my children.” 

“Hyungie!” Taehyung rolls off of Jimin to protest with a pout. 

“You only say that coz you’re so old and boring hyungie,” Jimin says, a mischievous glint in his dark eyes.

“Excuse you!” Jin shouts in mock outrage. “I raised you on my back all these years and this is how you repay me? See if I let you have any dessert.”

“You’re the best hyungie in the whole world!” Taehyung backpedals quickly.

“So young and youthful!” Jimin agrees, nodding frantically.

“That’s what I thought,” Jin says, throwing his head back with a sniff. “Now play nicely and I may just rethink my stance on dessert.”

And with that, Jin saunters over to the kitchen, which Harry only notices now at the far end of the room. A large island with a marble countertop cordons off the space from the rest of the room, without cutting your line of sight to the entertainment area. Three white leather barstools sit in a neat line along the island, on the entertainment side and Harry hops up onto one to watch Jin flutter about the kitchen. 

Jin opens the fridge door and pauses, “What would you like to drink Harry-ah?”

Harry twitches. 

 _Ah? Ah what?_ he wonders, glancing over at the other boy quizzically. The other boy doesn’t look like he will be expanding upon his statement, and is in fact looking at Harry expectantly, as if waiting on a response.

Crap.                                                                       

“Um,” Harry stalls, using his Occlumency to cheat, playing back the conversation to find what it is he should be responding to. 

 _Drinks got it,_ Harry nods to himself. Out loud he says, “What are the options again sorry?”

“Water, juice, soft drink, cider and sake,” Jin rattles off quickly after a quick glance in the fridge.

“Could I please have a glass of water?” Harry says, unable to ignore the little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like his Aunt, the one that tells him to pick the least expensive option, to not be greedy, to be thankful for what he gets. 

“Coming right up,” Jin says, with a warm smile that makes his eyes crunch up into happy little crescents.

“Hyungie, can I have a cola?” Jungkook asks from his place on the couch. 

“Me too hyungie!” Taehyung and Jimin sing out in unison before dissolving into giggles and poking at each other playfully.

Harry feels his lips twitch despite himself at their antics, memories of Fred and George using their twin speak flashing through his mind. He thinks its sweet that the younger boys call Jin brother, the mothering the eldest in the group extends to all easy to spot, and it makes something in him soften to see the respect and clear affection the younger boys offer in return. 

“Harry-ah, would you prefer chopsticks or cutlery?” Namjoon asks, startling Harry so badly, he has to grip the stool quickly and somewhat awkwardly, to prevent himself from nose diving into the countertop.

The older boy had slipped into the room through an entry that Harry hadn't originally noticed, until this very second. 

 _CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_ the shadow of Mad Eye roars, even as his magic reacts defensively, coiling just below his sternum, compressing tightly into the small space. The war veteran in him is tense, his fingers itch with the need to flick his wrist just so to send his wand shooting into his palm and it takes everything in him to not tense, to forcefully relax, to make his muscles loose, ready to react should it be needed. 

Thankfully, no one notices his overreaction - Namjoon had turned his back to Harry the moment he entered the room to press a soft kiss to his soulmate's cheek. As Harry resituates himself on his stool, carefully easing up his white knuckled grip on the countertop and forcing himself to take deep steadying breaths, he sees Jin lean up to reciprocate before turning back to the pot on the stove. 

"Chopsticks are fine," Harry finally, when he gets his breathing under control and his magik settles, spreading back out from the tightly compacted mass, until it's resting just under his skin, a reassuring warmth that he can call on at any time. 

He watches Namjoon and Jin work, Namjoon shuffling in and around Jin's movements in a well practiced dance, and feels completely awkward on his perch. It feels completely unnatural to not be helping, to be sitting whilst others prepare dinner and set the table, the echoes of his Aunt scream at him,  _lazy ungrateful freak!_

“Jin,” he says hesitantly, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “Can I do anything to help?" 

The older boy looks up in surprise. Warm brown eyes study his face and Harry feels oddly exposed on his little, yet oddly comfortable, stool. Finally the older boy smiles gently at him and ushers him over. 

“Why don’t you grab some plates out of that cupboard there and help Joonie set the table?” Jin says, gesturing with his hip to the cupboard behind him.

“Sure thing!” Harry says, flashing a smile at the older boy, pleased to be given something to do.

He scurries over to the cabinet and opens the door gently. He collects the plates quickly, counting out six, and heads over to the doorway Namjoon entered through, and finds himself in a dining room. The dining room itself is smaller than the previous room, but still comfortably seats a large table with eight chairs, and Harry can just make out a pair of double bifold doors that lead out to a balcony and outdoor entertainment space. His wandering thought process comes to a screaming halt when he spies the table, which has clearly been set up for the night’s meal: an assortment of dishes line the centre and several candles have been light, giving off a soft and warm glow.

“Everything okay Harry-ah?” Namjoon says, making Harry blink up at him. 

There it is again.

Harry feels his nose scrunch at the addition to his name.

It pricks at his curiosity. What does it mean? Why are the others using it? It feels like he’s missed something of importance, which grates on his nerves more than he would like. He’s learnt the importance of intelligence collection the hard way, his childhood and time in the wizarding world saw to that, and he had vowed to never walk into a situation blind again. The realization he’s done just that tonight is an unwelcome one. Still, it’s not hurting anybody and it doesn’t _sound_ like a slight – he has too much experience with insults both subtle and direct to know intimately what a slur sounds like, regardless of the language it's spoken in.

But still, the innocuous suffix attached to his name nags at him, an unresolved itch that he does his best to ignore, even as he responds to the question from Namjoon.

“Sorry, I was just admiring your dining area,” Harry blushes, ducking his head and quickly making his way over to the table to distribute the plates. He places the final plate on its proper placemat and looks up to see Namjoon watching him, having already finished distributing the cutlery.

“Thanks Harry-ah!” Namjoon says, reaching over to ruffle his hair affectionately. Harry forcefully restrains the urge to duck, reminds himself firmly and repeatedly that he is  _safe_ , that he's surrounded by Mundanes, and let's the other man scuff his hair into further disarray. 

It's ... nice, he decides, reaching up hand to half-heartedly fix his hair. He freezes mid-movement when he realizes. 

_Wait a minute ... the pesky little suffix is back!_

The resurgence of the suffix makes him frown, but he hardly has time to enquire, for Jin is making his way over to the table with a steaming platter of food and Harry scurries out of his way. 

“Boys!” Jin calls out, after placing the dish on the only clear space remaining on the table. “Dinner is ready.”

Jungkook stands up straight away, making a beeline for the table and gracefully seats himself next to Jin. Jimin and Taehyung get to their feet slower, but make their way over, flopping down next to Namjoon.

“Harry-ah, come sit,” Jin says, gesturing to the open seat next to him. 

A fourth time and Merlin damn it. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” Harry blurts, and immediately feels his face flush when all eyes swing towards him. He scurries over to the indicated spot and sits down quickly.

“Doing what Harry-ah?” Jin gives him a gentle smile, brown eyes warm and patient.

“That!” Harry exclaims, waving his hands wildly. “You keep adding that word to my name and I don’t understand why." 

“Ah,” understanding washes over Jin’s face. “Has no one explained Korean honorifics to you Harry-ah?”

Harry blinks and feels like hitting himself.

Hermione had mentioned something about honorifics but he’d been too wired to really listen, a deep presiding instinct driving him to leave early, to not be late, to make a good first impression, to not impose or be a burden on his hosts. He hadn’t heard a word of her well-intentioned lecture, too busy checking the time and calculating and recalculating how long it would take him to get to the boys’ apartment. As is often the case, he fiercely regrets not listening to Hermione (really he should know better by now).

“My friend Mia might have tried to explain them to me and I may or may not have been distracted at the time?” Harry says with a wince.

“Honorifics are a way to show respect to your elders, but also a way for elders to express their affection,” Jin says, and though he’s imparting information, he does it kindly, in a way that doesn’t make Harry feel stupid for not knowing something so clearly engrained in the other’s culture. “For a general rule, you should apply honorifics up, that is to people who are older than you or are in a position of power above you.”

“Okay?” it seems simple enough, but, “so what does ‘ah’ mean then in context of the honorific system?”

“You use it for people who you are familiar with or consider friends of the same age-group or younger than you.” Namjoon explains. “You would use ‘ah’ for names that end with a consonant like Taehyung-ah,” here he pauses to gesture at Taehyung, who grins and uses his hands to frame his face cutely, before continuing, “and ‘yah’ is used for names that end in a vowel like yours. That reminds me, what year were you born Harry-ah?”

“1997,” Harry says cautiously, not liking the way Jimin and Taehyung sit up straight at the admission, the sudden gleeful expressions making him want to bolt. He’s known the Weasley’s too long to not be deathly afraid of such expressions. Nothing good ever comes from that particular combination of gleeful and mischievous.

“That makes you our dongsaeng!” The pair crow together, bouncing eagerly in place.

Harry blinks.

 _Come again?_  

The translation spell must be misfiring. He could’ve sworn the boys just called him their little brother.

“What month?” Namjoon asks, and Harry’s confusion only deepens when he realized he understands the other perfectly.

The translation spell is fine. 

His nose crinkles. 

He’s not sure how he feels about the title and claiming of kinship, but looking around at the beaming faces, he thinks he could be okay with it. These boys make him feel welcome, make him feel comfortable and safe in a way that has typically been reserved for Hermione and Ron and select few of his Hogwarts companions.

A glance up makes him realize they’re waiting on a response and he rushes to correct his mistake, cursing himself for losing track of the conversation.

“Oh! Sorry,” Harry blushes. He licks his lips feeling inexplicably nervous. “What was the question Namjoon?” 

“What month were you born?” Namjoon says patiently, completely ignoring the way the younger three are practically bouncing in place.

“July?” it comes out as a question.

“HA!” 

The loud cackle that rips from Jimin has Harry leaning back in his chair in alarm, watching as Jimin collapses into Taehyung, the pair cackling almost hysterically in their combined delight. 

“You’re still the maknae Kookie!” Jimin howls, the force of his mirth toppling him from his perch. He hits the floor with a dull thud and continues to laugh. Taehyung fares slightly better, having fallen face first into Jimin’s now empty seat, his deeper chuckles muffled by the plush cushion. 

Harry looks helplessly over at Jin, feeling completely out of his depth.

“You’re younger than Taehyung and Jiminie who were born in 1995, but older than Jungkookie who was born in September of 1997,” Jin explains. “That means Jungkook is still the youngest of the group.”

“Okay?” Harry bites his lip, still unsure of the implications this revelation. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Jungkook speaks up, aiming a glare at the still giggling boys before turning to smile at Harry. “I don’t mind having another hyungie.”                      

“Wait, what does that entail?” The translation spell automatically translates the new term, but he wants to be sure.

_Older brother._

“Hyung?” Jungkook thinks for a moment, clearly at a loss of how to put the concept into words, as one would be if they were asked to describe something like the colour green, or what chicken tastes like – you know exactly what each is but putting the concept into words in a way that encapsulates the true meaning is a daunting task. “Literally it means older brother, but it’s a way to show respect and acknowledge your superiority coz you’re older.”

Harry feels his teeth draw blood as his stomach churns violently, completely unable to shake the memories of red eyes and reverent whispers of  _My Lord._

“I’m not superior to anyone, I’m just Harry,” Harry spits out, words tumbling over each other and colliding in his rush to get them out. “You don’t have to call me hyung.” He adds, addressing Jungkook directly. 

Jungkook is frowning, brow drawn, cupid bow lips slanted downwards. “I don’t have to, if you’d rather I didn't? If it makes you uncomfortable, we won’t use honorifics. But Harry, as hyungie said earlier, honorifics are about respect and good manners, but they can also terms of endearment and affection.”

Terms of endearment? Harry ponders, turning this statement over in his mind.

_Older brother._

Maybe the literal translation wasn’t far from the truth?

Another thought occurs to him suddenly, “It’s polite to use honorifics? The equivalent of good manners?” 

Had he unintentionally been insulting people all this time? His stomach clenches and he feels ill at the thought. 

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Namjoon acknowledges with a nod of his head.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry breathes. A wave of mortification washes over him and he swears to pay more attention to Hermione when she tries to impart her knowledge. 

“I am so sorry,” he blurts, burying his face in his arms to hide is burning cheeks. “I think I’ve been horribly rude.”

“Harry-ah, you haven’t offended anybody, please calm down,” Jin says, voice low and soothing.

“Westerners get a pass coz they don’t know any better,” one of the boys pipes up.

Without lifting his head, Harry can’t tell exactly which one it was, but he’s too embarrassed to even think about moving right now. His arms are safe. They hide his burning cheeks and don’t stare at him or judge him and he thinks he might like to remain here in the safety of his arms for eternity.

“Jiminie!” Jin scolds, and Harry can make out the sound of skin on skin, in that dramatic way that occurs when you want the blow to sound more painful than it actually was. Peering through the gap in his arms, he can just make out Jimin pouting up at the eldest and rubbing his head. 

“What Jimin  _means_ ,” Namjoon says, and Harry turns his head so he can peek at him from the safety of his arms. “Is that we don’t expect you to use a system that isn’t yours, despite your amazing grasp on the language itself. You haven’t offended anybody, it’s okay.”

Harry feels himself frown and he stares blankly down at the wool of his jumper. 

 _That’s not right_ , he thinks. He’s the one that came to Korea, so he’s the one that should have made more of an effort to learn the customs and the language, rather than forcing people to accommodate him because he had been too impatient to get to his soulmate to do the proper research. Growing up with the Dursleys, completely divorced from his own cultural roots and then meeting the Patil twins had opened his eyes to the importance of one’s cultural identity. He knows the importance of heritage, of being able to openly express oneself without fear of reappraisal. Knows the comfort drawn from being surrounded by people who let you be yourself, without fear or the need to suppress integral parts of yourself. He refuses to let these boys, these boys who have been nothing but welcoming and kind, dim themselves for his comfort.

 _There’s ignorance and then there’s arrogance and a lack of respect,_ he determines, _and I refuse to be arrogant._

Setting his jaw, Harry abandons the safety of his arms, sitting upright and forcing himself to meet Namjoon’s somewhat startled gaze head on.

“Ignorance is not an excuse to be rude,” Harry says firmly. “And I refuse to force you to abandon your culture, your _identity_ , to make me feel more comfortable, particularly over something like suffixes.” Here he pauses, suddenly sheepish, before continuing in a rush, “But I’m really new to this honorifics thing, so fair warning, I’m probably going to mess it up horribly.” 

Feeling suddenly shy, he ducks his head and therefore missed the looks exchanged over his head.

“We’ll help won’t we hyungie?” Jungkook says, making everybody turn to look at the youngest.

“Of course we will,” Jin says and Harry feels something warm unfurl in his chest at the easy admission and acceptance.

“Harry-ah! It’s easy see!” Taehyung eels upright and points at Jin, “Hyungie”, the boy points to Namjoon next and repeats, “hyungie,” before dramatically pointing to himself and Jimin both, “hyungies,” and finishes with jazz hands in Jungkook’s general direction, “maknae or dongsaeng.”

“Hyungie?” Harry parrots, committing the term to memory.

Jungkook snorts, “The correct terminology is hyung, but Taetae likes to think he’s cute.” 

Taehyung gasps dramatically and clutches at his chest dramatically, “Think, Kookie-yah?  _Think_? I don’t just  _think_  I’m cute, I  _know_  I am.”

“I’m cuter,” Jimin says, cocky grin tugging at his lips, and Harry is almost startled when he realizes the other boy had at some point picked himself off the floor and resumed his seat at the table, all without Harry noticing.

 _Constant vigilance!_ the shadowy impression of Mad Eye barks, but for once, Harry doesn’t straighten, doesn’t force himself to pay closer attention to his surroundings or check the exit points. For once, the war veteran steps back and Harry deliberately relaxes into his seat, gaze drifting to the squabbling boys in front of him, letting the warmth and companionship warm him.

“Nuh-uh,” Taehyung says, a mulish jut to his chin. 

“Yuh-huh,” Jimin smirks at Taehyung, reaching up to poke the other boy’s nose.

Taehyung pouts before whirling on Namjoon, “Hyungie! Who’s cuter!”

Harry watches in fascination as Jimin and Taehyung try to … out cute each other? when the older boy glances their way. Jimin flashes the peace sign with both hands, scrunching up his face into a beaming smile, whilst Taehyung elects for a boxy grin and clenches his hands into fists, reaching up to place them next to his cheeks. 

“Harry-ah and Kookie are the cutest,” Namjoon declares after a moment, taking a bite of chicken with relish, smirking at the twin wails of indignation from the two competitors. “Both are sitting quietly, enjoying the sandwiches Jinnie diligently prepared for us.” 

Harry hides his startled laughter with a mouthful of rice, ducking his head and letting his fringe hide the laughter shining in his eyes. When he looks up, he sees Jin’s fond gaze resting on him and he feels suddenly bashful.

“Thanks for cooking hyungie,” Jungkook pipes up with a crinkle-eyed smile, drawing the attention of the table. 

“You’re most welcome Kookie,” Jin coos, beaming at the youngest.

“Suck up,” Jimin says, tone scornful but face openly showing his affection for the younger boy. 

“Like a vacuum,” Taehyung agrees mournfully, and Harry is amused when both boys turn in a perfectly synchronised move to make slurping noises at the youngest. 

The air is light, and its clear despite their words the other two are only teasing. He is sharply reminded of the twins teasing Ron, all mischief wrapped in deviousness, with familial affection woven through. Of Seamus and Dean ganging up on Neville, of gentle banter designed to draw the meek from their shell. Of Ginny and Luna combining forces against Hermione, laughter and smiles to soothe and smooth out the hard edges eroded by stress. Instead of hurting, the reminder of his friends sends a fissure of warmth through him, bubbles of affection fizzing up from his stomach and spreading out along his limbs in a phantom of a hug.

“You two could learn a lesson from your soulmate,” Jin scolds, leaning over to serve Jungkook and Harry more rice.

Harry blinks.

 _Soulmates?_ he wonders, _plural?_

But he can’t focus on that too long because there’s Jimin, throwing himself against Taehyung and loudly declaring, “Kookie-hyungie teach us the art of your ways!”

“Kookie-hyungie we are mere worms who come to beg for your tutelage,” Taehyung cries, quickly joining in on the dramatics and looking seconds away from flinging himself at the youngest.

“You’re both idiots,” Jungkook scoffs a light blush dusting his cheeks, but Harry can make out the pleased little smile tugging at his lips and knows the boy is thrilled by the attention.

“Kookie!” Jimin gasps, clutching at his chest. “Why must you be so hurtful!”

“Settle down boys,” Namjoon says, cutting off Taehyung before he could try to one up Jimin’s exclamation. “We have a guest and you’re letting Jin’s hard work go cold.”

Jimin and Taehyung glance over at Jin. The eldest is serenely picking through his rice, though he looks up when he notices the pair looking his way, one brow raised in quiet admonishment.

“Sorry hyungie,” Jimin and Taehyung chirp, faces bowed in contrition, picking up their chopsticks and digging in to their dinner.

For a while there’s silence only broken by the sound of chopsticks clinking, and quiet murmurs of “pass the plate”.

“Hyungie,” Jungkook’s soft voice draws Harry’s attention and he’s mildly startled to find the other boy looking at him.

 _Oh,_ he remembers with a flash of clarity. _I’m a hyungie now. Got to remember that._

“Um, yes Jungkook-ah?” Harry tries, hoping he got the suffix right breathing a sigh of relief at the wink and subtle thumbs up from the younger boy.

“We’re going to the movies tomorrow, do you want to come?” Jungkook asks, and Harry is surprised when he doesn’t immediately have the urge to decline.

“Um, what movie were you thinking of seeing?” Harry stalls, splitting his mental focus, half of his attention remaining on Jungkook for his answer, the other half delving into his mental plane to examine his core.

He finds a surprising lack of anxiety and apathy in relation to the boys surrounding him and their offer to join them tomorrow, and he’s even more surprised by the small tendril of hope and affection that Jungkook’s question has bought into fruition.

Huh. 

 _Well, at least this will give Hermione and Ron the space and time they dearly need,_ he thinks. 

He loves the pair with everything he is, they’re the siblings of his heart and soul, but he’s not blind. He can see how strained their bond has become, can almost see the fissures and cracks the war and time have wrought. He knows that they never got a chance to debrief after the horcrux hunt; knows that they never really stopped being his war lieutenants, his right and left hands in the war; knows that they never really relaxed _after_ the war because they were so focused on him and _his_ problems that they never stopped to check in with each other. His soul-siblings deserve a chance to reconnect, to just _be,_ without having to stress about him and his failure to find his bonded. Whilst they have never made him feel like the third wheel (both Hermione and Ron have always striven to ensure Harry knows he’s a valued member of their trio and for that alone he will always adore them), he knows them, knows that they’ve been so concerned about _his_ mental health that they haven’t stopped to worry about their own. And so this little give, this self-imposed break, will hardly be an imposition or especially strenuous because these boys have been nothing but warm and welcoming.

 _So it’s decided, so mote it be_ , he thinks. 

All of this flashes through his mind's eye in the space between heart beats, and he tunes back in to hear Jungkook’s answer, “The Hitman’s Bodyguard.”

“I haven’t heard a lot about that film, but I wouldn’t mind, if you guys don’t mind me tagging along…?” Harry says hesitantly, trying to check the faces of the others for any sign that they didn’t want him joining their day of merriment.

“Harry,” Jin lightly admonishes, “We’d be delighted if you joined us.” 

And even though he’s looking for it, studying each face before him with all the focus he had honed during his Hogwarts years, he can’t find a hint of deceit on any of them. 

 _Well, I guess that’s that_ , he thinks.

He’s going to the movies.

 _I’ll have to ask Hermione what to expect,_ he mentally notes, focusing back on his meal and letting the warmth of the others wash over him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you to Tipu, leftonread and IAWHPD - your comments made my week! And a big shout out to all those who left kudos, blessings on you, blessings on your cow, blessings on your house <3
> 
> Secondly, sorry for the short-ish chapter, it fought me and I'm still not 100% happy with it but it's as done as it's going to get. Also just quickly, rating has been updated due to some slightly graphic flashbacks, continue with caution. 
> 
> Also also, slight spoilers for the movie Hitman's Bodyguard.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Look at our boy, Hermione!” Ron lifts a hand to his face as if wiping away tears, using the other to clutch at his chest. “All grown up and going to the pictures by himself with friends!”

Hermione rolls her eyes at her soulmate’s dramatics, hands fiddling with the collar of Harry’s jumper, plucking at the fabric with expert hands to make it sit correctly.

“Ignore him Harry,” she advises, finally stepping back to admire her work and letting the boys get a look at the outfit she had selected. “There. You look like a regular Mundane teen."

“Regular?” Ron echoes incredulously. “Hermione, his jeans have more holes than a pauper, it’s the middle of winter, he’s going to freeze!”

“It’s called fashion Ronald,” Hermione replies frostily, though the bold orange Harry can just make out painting Ron’s nails give away her true feelings. “You might want to look it up.”

Harry ignores the squawk of outrage from Ron and the squabbling that breaks out behind him, stepping forward and eyeing himself in the mirror.

Ron’s not entirely incorrect, Harry thinks, taking in the ripped jeans Hermione had put him in. Thankfully, she had let him keep his Weasley sweater, the oversized jumper a comfort and doing more to calm his nerves than his friends’ familiar banter.

“Alright, any last tips before I go?” Harry says, tearing his gaze from his reflection and stepping away from the mirror.

“Don’t forget to go to the bathroom before the movie,” Hermione says immediately, reaching over to snatch up the satchel resting on the back of a chair.

“Hermione!” Harry flushes, gaping at his best friend.

“What, its solid advice,” Hermione is unapologetic, “You’ll thank me latter when you are able to watch the whole movie rather than worrying about your bladder halfway through.”

“Here,” she adds, thrusting the satchel at him while he is still sputtering. “I packed your wallet and I changed enough galleons for you to have spending money. There’s also a change of clothes, an umbrella, a scarf and blanket in case you get cold and some sunscreen because you never know what the weather is going to do here. I also packed a notebook, a pencil case and your invisibility cloak.” Hermione rattles off, without pause for breath. “Oh and there’s a potion kit with Blood Replenisher, Skelegrow, Pepper Up, Veritaserum and Draught of the Living Dead for emergencies.”

“Dear Merlin, Mia,” Ron says, with a short helpless laugh. “Did you pack enough? I think you might have missed the kitchen sink.”

“You never know what you’ll need,” Hermione says primly, though the faint flush creeping up her cheeks tells Harry she knows she’s gone a little overboard in her preparations. Just like Harry, who can’t leave a room without checking he has wand within easy access (he firmly doesn't think of how his parents might have stood a chance if only they'd had their wands close at hand that night), Hermione’s obsessive need to prepare for every eventuality and possibility is a habit, so deeply ingrained, and reinforced through catastrophic failure the few times she had not had time to prepare adequately. Often, during the war, it was the only thing separating the trio’s successes from devastating casualties.

“Thank you Mia, I appreciate it,” is all he says, leaning over to press a quick kiss to her burning cheeks. “Wish me luck,” he adds, taking a few steps away and preparing to apparate.

“Good luck mate,” Ron says, drawing Hermione into the cradle of his arms.

Harry lifts one hand in farewell, before concentrating his thoughts and magic. With soft pop! of displaced air, he vanishes from the flat, only to reappear at the designated apparation point he had located earlier.

Nodding to the attendant manning the small booth, he strolls confidently out into the sun. Once out on the street, he makes for the building with the huge neon lights on the side proclaiming MEGABOX, the name of the cinema Jin had sent him earlier that day.

Inside is packed with people, some milling about, others sitting on the stairs, and still others hurrying to and fro. He stares in dismay and wonders how he will possibly find the others in this crowd. His eyes scan the room, idly noting the platform jutting out over the crowd on the second floor. 

 _An ideal vantage point_ , he muses, nodding to himself. Slipping into the crowd, he ducks and weaves expertly through the masses. Finally, he reaches his destination and finds a gap to claim as his own as he looks out over the sprawling throng of people. A sea of colour greets him, the people below sporting a virtual rainbow of hair colours. He fingers his own hair and wonders about how his colours (natural raven locks in memory of his fathers, streaks of red to pay tribute his mother and complimenting gold to honour his House) would look on his soulmate’s nails. 

His eyes continue to roam the crowd, looking for a hint of cotton candy pink or platinum blonde hair - with Namjoon and Jin being the tallest, they should be the easiest to spot in this crowd. He ponders the wisdom of meeting at such a popular location when the boys are allegedly so famous, even as he busily scans the ever moving crowd. If it were him, and he was home in Britain, he would have been avoiding all the local hotspots like the plague, for fear of the inevitable mobbing that would occur should a single person recognize him in public.

 _But maybe the Korean music fans were more sane than British wizards and witches_ , he muses.

“Harry-ah! Over here!” a familiar voice calls, and he looks up to see Namjoon standing by the candy bar with the others. The people nearest to them startle at the loud shout, glancing over to find the origin of the noise. Some see the enthusiastically waving group, realize the boys were flagging down a wayward friend, and go back to what they were doing, dismissing the boys entirely, but Harry notices several people doing a double take, staring at the group with a barely hidden awe that is all too familiar.   

 _Ahh_ , Harry realizes grimly.  _Not less crazy, the boys are just a wee bit naive._

With a sigh, he casually flicks his wrist to activate his holster, letting his wand drop into his hand, the baggy fabric of his sleeve the perfect foil to hide the slender piece of wood from sight. Grasping his wand firmly in one hand, he wiggles the fingers of his other _just so_ when he draws close enough, simultaneously casting a subtle, yet overpowered, Notice-Me-Not charm over the group and a weak, area wide Confundus charm that should hopefully stop things from escalating any further. He watches carefully and nods in satisfaction as the few people who had cottoned on to the boys identity blink suddenly, as if coming out of a deep slumber, and turn away in confusion. 

Slipping his wand back into his holster, Harry hurries across the last few feet separating him from the boys, calling out a greeting as he does, “Hi! Sorry if I’m late.”

“Don’t be ridiculous Harry, you’re perfectly on time!” Jin says waving him over with a warm smile. “Alright boys, now that Harry is here, what snacks would you like?” he adds, turning to look at the others. 

“We should get popcorn,” Jimin announces loudly.

“But I want chocolate,” Taehyung says with a frown.

“But popcorn is better,” Jimin argues, all wildly gesticulating limbs and dramatic facial expressions.

(Harry has come to the conclusion that both Jimin and Taehyung are Drama and Chaos personified and has vowed to ensure the twins, Mischief and Mayhem, never meet these two.)

“Candy is the ultimate snack food,” Jungkook throws in his two cents.

“I don’t care, but I think we should limit ourselves to one snack, we should save our appetites for lunch,” is Namjoon’s only contribution before he turns to talk to Jin, leaving the younger three to hash out what they’re going to eat.

“Mia says that popcorn is a cinema going must,” Harry offers tentatively, curbing his flinch when his comment draws the attention of the entire group.

“Mia?” Jimin asks with a salacious wiggle of his eyebrows. “Your soulmate?”

“Older sister,” Harry corrects, for that’s what she is to him. His sister in everything but blood. Hermione and Ron are the only living family that he cares about.

“I didn’t realize you had siblings Harry-ah,” Jin says, blinking down at him.

“Sister in everything but blood,” Harry confirms with a bob of his head. “Her and Ron, her soulmate, and I all went to the same boarding school. They’re the best.”

A hand reaches out to ruffle his hair and Harry has to forcefully clamp down on his Occlumency shields to prevent the instinctive flinch, to fight the urge to duck away from the unexpected touch. Glancing up, he sees Namjoon smirking down at him.

“Sorry, too cute to resist,” Namjoon says with an unapologetic grin.

“’m not cute,” Harry mutters, hand flying up to straighten out his hair.

“I’m afraid you are Harry,” Jin says apologetically, leaning over to pull him closer with an arm tucked over thin shoulders. Harry doesn’t resist, leaning into the older boy’s warmth with a sigh. “Do you have a preference for snacks Harry-ah?”

“I’ve never been to the cinema before,” Harry admits with an unconcerned shrug of his shoulders. “But I trust Mia, so I guess my vote would be popcorn.”

“You’ve never been to the movies?!” Jungkook exclaims, eyes wide and horrified.

A shocked hush descends over the group, Jimin and Taehyung looking up from their squabble to stare at Harry in disbelief.

“Boarding school,” Harry says simply. No use mentioning his relatives’ single-minded focus on ensuring his childhood was as miserable as possible when he had a suitably less pathetic and socially acceptable excuse lined up.

The others exchange a look over his head and come to some sort of consensus.

“Tae and Jimine you’re on snack duty. Jungkookie, you help Joon with the drinks and everyone meet back here so I can distribute tickets,” Jin says with all the seriousness of drill sergeant barking out orders to his troops.

“Yes hyungie/Jinnie,” the others chorus before breaking off into pairs and slipping away into the crowd.

“Hyungie?” Harry tries, as Jin steers him over to the ticket booth with the arm still draped over his shoulders.

“Yes Harry?” Jin says, glancing down at him.

“What…?” Harry trails off and puffs up his cheeks, unable to find the words to ask the question that is at the front of his mind.

“Harry-ah, you’re our friend now and it’s our duty to make sure your first cinema experience is amazing. So that’s what we’re going to do. And you’re going to let us, because we care about you,” Jin tells him serenely, stepping up and placing his order when the ticket seller gesture them over, leaving Harry gaping at his back.

Jin’s words echo in his head, you’re our friend now … we care about you.

Jin had said it so easily, like it was an irrefutable fact.

Harry isn’t really sure what to do with that level of genuinity aimed in his direction, but he resolves to think about it later, when he has time to analyse things more closely. For now, he takes a breath and looks around him, taking in the atmosphere. A group of giggling teenagers rush past him and he wonders what it must be like, to be that young and carefree. Movement catches his attention, and he watches as a young woman rushes toward a strikingly beautiful redhead who reminds him of Ginny, all graceful movements and flowing loose hair. The woman throws herself the last couple of feet, and she’s caught by the smiling redhead, who folds her arms around her and cradles her close.

Soulmates reuniting, no matter the time apart, is always a beautiful thing, Harry thinks. But it never fails to remind him of what’s missing, to make him long for when his soulmate will be the one looking like he’s been handed the moon, all love and wonder and amazement that he’s returned to them, that he’s _theirs_. He watches as the young ladies link hands and head towards the candy counter, a faint, wistful smile tugging at his lips.

A piercing scream rips through the idyllic atmosphere, tearing Harry from his maudlin thoughts and jolting him into action. He whips around to assess the danger and for a second he’s back at Hogwarts, a young Hufflepuff in front of him, probably a second year, eyes blown wide with terror, a slowly growing red stain decorating her once pristine uniform (to _o young, she should have been safe, why didn’t she leave with the others, she should have been safe!_ ). His blood turns to ice in his veins and he watches, shell-shocked, as the life slowly bleeds out of her eyes, leaving them vacant and glassy, a permanent look of terror and horror painted across her too young face. Harry blinks and the image shifts, revealing a young Korean teenager, still in her school uniform, covered in red liquid and yelling at a boy her age for not watching his surroundings.

Harry lets out an explosive sigh, feeling jittery and off kilter.

 _Get it together Potter!_ he berates himself, listening to his galloping heart trying to leap it’s way out of his chest. Shoulders slumping, he runs a shaky hand through his hair, desperately trying to shake off the echoes of guilt and recrimination, of despair and the endless _it should have been me, she should have been safe_ that play on loop in his mind, chasing on the heels of the flashback.

“Harry-ah?” a soft voice calls out his name, and he looks up to meet Jin’s concerned gaze.

 _Fuck_ , Harry thinks, biting his lip.

It’s just his luck to have a flashback in public, drawing attention to himself. He has no idea how long the other boy had been watching him, but from the concern practically radiating from him, he’d seen enough to alarm him and raise several question marks.

“Sorry hyungie, I got lost in thought!” Harry flashes Jin a blinding grin, aiming to distract, to allay worry and any and all questions the other might have.

Jin frowns and Harry winces – he’s not getting off that easy this time. The older boy opens his mouth to say something, only to be interrupted by a shout.

“Hyungie! We got snacks!” Jimin and Taehyung are suddenly there, arms overflowing with popcorn and bagged candy that Harry vaguely recognizes Dudley demanding when they were younger.

“Hyungie!”

And there are Jungkook and Namjoon, struggling over to them, laden with bottled water and cans of something in a bright red can. Harry takes the distraction offered and hurries over to Jungkook, easing the top cans from his pile.

“Thanks hyungie!” Jungkook gives him a beaming grin, and Harry blinks back to before fourth year, before Hermione became self-conscious of her teeth, before her grins shrank to demure little quirks of the lips, before she felt compelled to shrink her teeth to fit in. Children can be cruel, adults can be crueller, and Harry hopes nobody has ever teased Jungkook for his bunny teeth; nothing should dim this boy’s smile.

Out loud he makes sure to smile back and says, “You’re welcome Kookie.”

“Come along children, we’re in cinema 5!” Jin calls out, bustling forward and ushering Jimin and Taehyung along with him. Harry catches the thoughtful look he throws over his shoulder and knows that while he has been sufficiently distracted by the arrival of others, the older boy has by no means forgotten what he had seen.

Harry conceals a frown at the thought and falls into step with Jungkook, noting absently that Namjoon trails behind them, taking up the rear.

“You excited hyungie?” Jungkook asks as they set forward, weaving through the crowd.

“I’m …” Harry searches for the appropriate word to describe his emotional state right now, before finally settling on, “Curious. I want to see what all the hype is about.”

“You’re gonna love it hyungie,” Jungkook predicts confidently, a slight bounce in step. “We’re seeing it in extreme screen which is awesome because the graphics are unmatched by any other type of screen and the speakers are so loud you feel like you’re actually right there in the action and the seats are super comfy and—”

“Wow, slow down there Kook!” Namjoon cuts in with a chuckle, nudging the younger boy. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

“But hyungie!” Jungkook turns outraged eyes on the eldest, as Namjoon gently steers them through the door marked 5 that Jin and the boys disappeared through. “Harry needs to enjoy his first ever cinema experience! What if he hates it and decides to never see another movie again and it will be all our fault that he never experienced the true joy the movies can bring?”

“I’m sure Harry will enjoy himself Kookie, don’t borrow trouble,” Namjoon leads them out into a dimly lit area. A large screen dominates the far wall and sprawling out in front of it is a sea of chairs.

“Joonie,” Jin calls out softly, waving them over.

As they get closer, Harry can see that the chairs are more like couches, high backed and plush looking, with room enough for a couple to easily share. Jimin and Taehyung have set up on one, and Jin is curled on another, leaving an empty space between the two couples. Namjoon moves to join Jin on his couch, leaving Harry to take the middle couch. Jungkook hovers for a moment, eyes darting between his soulmates and the empty couch in the middle, before seemingly coming to a decision.

“Scooch over hyungie!” he whispers, clambering onto the couch Harry had claimed for himself, shifting to be on the side closest to his soulmates.

Jimin and Taehyung don’t argue or make a fuss about the boy’s choice, and if anything, expected this outcome from the beginning, if the fond smiles thrown their way are anything to go by. Which doesn’t make sense, because Harry is a relative stranger they met yesterday and that’s their soulmate? If—no when, _when_ Harry meets his soulmate (he has to think positive, he will meet his soulmate, ~~otherwise why did he come back~~ ), he doesn’t think he’d be comfortable trusting them to a stranger, not like this, not when he hasn’t had a chance to thoroughly vet the other individual. Harry steals a glance at Jungkook’s nails (people can lie, often do, but nails always reveal the truth) and is stunned to see soft bubble-gum pink entwined with gold, not a hint of indigo or worse, dark green to be seen. Still he has to check, unwilling to be the reason the boy separates himself from his soulmates.

“Jungkook-ah, you can sit with Jimin and Taehyung, I don’t mind sitting by myself,” Harry says, feeling inexplicably guilty.

“But then you’d be by yourself and I wouldn’t know if you were enjoying the movie properly,” Jungkook says reasonably, reaching over to lace his fingers through Jimin’s. “Plus this way there’s more room for everyone. Now come sit! The movie is about to start!”

And it seems true, for the lighting, which was minimal to begin with, has begun to dim, leaving the theatre cloaked in darkness.

Harry gingerly eases onto the seat, shifting in minute increments until he is settled next to the younger boy. The chairs are big enough to reasonably fit a third person, so it’s no hassle to leave a polite distance between them. Upbeat music filters out of the speakers as an advertisement for the cinema plays out across the screen and Harry is captivated, eyes riveted to the screen.

 _Wizarding photos and portraits don’t hold a candle to this_ , he thinks in stunned awe. Nor do regular television programs, though he rarely had the chance to watch those growing up.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Jungkook wiggles unexpectedly, the plush cushions of the couch they’re sharing dipping rather suddenly at the movement, and then abruptly, a line of heat is plastered up against his side, a weight falling to rest on his shoulder.

Blinking, he glances down to see Jungkook has made himself comfortable, leaning mostly on Harry with his head propped on his shoulder, but still comfortably holding Jimin’s hand across the armrests separating the two chairs. Harry waits for his instincts to rebel at the position, for the usual discomfort and creeping shudder that unexpected contact kicks off, and is thrown when he realizes he’s fine. Instead of being too much, the warm weight nestled against his side reminds him of rainy days in the Gryffindor Tower, squished between Ron and Hermione in front of the blazing common room fire. Harry feels himself relaxing into the familiar, yet new touch, leaning back against the chair beneath him and tentatively resting his cheek against the crown of Jungkook’s head.

“This okay hyungie?” Jungkook whispers, and Harry feels a wave of fondness sweep through him.

“This is fine,” Harry whispers back, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen as music starts to build and the screen fades to a light blue.

“Good,” Jungkook says, snuggling closer as the title sequence begins to roll.

\---

If anything, Hermione and Jungkook had downplayed the sheer scale of a cinematic movie experience, Harry thinks, exiting the cinema in a daze.

“Hyungie, hyungie!” Jungkook calls, trying to get his attention from his position sandwiched between Jimin and Taehyung. When he sees that he has it, he lights up in excitement. “What did you think!”

“It was …” Harry trails off as he thinks back to the movie they’ve just left, mind still reeling. “… something.”

Harry doesn’t think he has the words to describe the emotional rollercoaster the movie provoked. The immersive experience was a double-edged sword. Whilst it meant he had empathised with the main lead (he doesn’t think anyone could watch a film designed like that and not feel some level of empathy for the main characters), the action scenes battered his war instincts, leaving him on a razor thin trigger wire and threatening to send him careening into a series of violent flashbacks. A white knuckled grip on his Occlumency shields and the warmth of the boy sitting next to him were the only things that had kept him firmly in reality, and with both, he was able to slowly identify the differences between this Mundane film and his own experiences.

The Japanese arms dealer being assassinated at the airport had been jarring. The jovial mood and tone being brutally destroyed by a single sniper bullet _tore_ at old mental wounds, phantom impressions of Sirius laughing in front of him before falling through the veil ghosting through his mindscape. But it had been a curse, not a bullet that had knocked Sirius off balance – a red flash of light aimed to harm not to assassinate, and the difference, though minor, was enough to stop the avalanche of emotion from completely overwhelming him.

The convoy ambush brought memories of running through the corridors of Hogwarts in that final battle roaring to the fore. The blood didn’t bother him, he’d seen too much for scenes like that to even register as gruesome, but the way the soldiers were gunned down one by one, outgunned and outnumbered from the outset, but still struggling till the very end to survive, to protect the witness, it gnawed at him, flashes of children, of students, of people he knew falling one by one, all to see him safe, assaulting him. The warmth of the body next to him had anchored him to the present, enough of a tether to reality to allow him to shake off the remnants of those memories, to refocus on the present.

And yet, despite that, the film had been filled with enough comedy to stop him from sliding completely into his memories and to make the experience almost enjoyable. The flashes of humour, however dark it had become at times, dispersed throughout the film, the easy banter between both main characters had been enough to stop the downward spiral of his thoughts.

“Wow Harry-ah, dial back the enthusiasm,” Namjoon teases from where he’s wrapped around Jin.

“It was good,” Harry allows, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his sweater.

“Just good?” Jungkook says, features falling in dismay. “What would have made it better? More snacks? More coke? More popcorn? Different seating? A different movie? A different genre of movie?”

“Jungkook!” Harry laughs, cutting the stream of questions off before the boy could get worked up further. “It was good! Really good. I think next time though I’d prefer to skip action movies as a whole – too much violence for me. But it was a good film, I liked it. Thank you for inviting me,” he adds, turning to include all of the boys in the thank you.

“You’re most welcome Harry-ah,” Jin says with a warm smile.

The group walk along with the crowd for a moment, until Jimin breaks the silence, “Harry-ah, do you want to come get ice-cream?”

“Oh, um,” Harry flounders, taken aback by the sudden offer.

“Hyungie you have to come, it’s tradition!” Jungkook argues, cutting him off with a pout.

“Kookie-yah!” Jin admonishes, turning a stern eye on the youngest. “Harry-ah can make his own decisions.”

“I wouldn’t mind?” Harry says, drawing the group’s attention. “Getting ice-cream? I wouldn’t want to get in the way of tradition after all,” he adds, sending Jungkook a teasing grin and getting a beaming bunny-tooth smile in return.

“You heard the man hyungie!” Taehyung trills, bouncing in place next to his bonded. “Please?”

“Please hyungie?” Jungkook pipes up, turning soulful eyes on the eldest.

“Pretty please hyungie?” Jimin quickly joins his bonded in their plea.

Jin purses his lips and frowns at the trio, opening his mouth to scold, but before he can Harry steps forward, eyes as wide and entreating as he can make them. 

“Please hyungie?” Harry says softly and stifles his grin when he sees the older boy falter. _Time to up the ante_. Harry carefully bites his lip and peeks up through his fringe, keeping his eyes wide and guileless, a tactic that never failed to turn Mrs Weasley to mush.

“Alright,” Jin caves, reaching out to tug Harry into a side hug and ruffling his hair. “Ice-cream it is.”

“Yes! Thanks hyungie!” the trio of bonded cheer loudly, smiles splitting their faces.

“You are going to be trouble, Harry-ah,” Namjoon says with a laugh. “You’ll fit right in.”

“Trouble is my middle name,” Harry says with a nonchalant shrug, inwardly wincing at the truth of the statement.

“Come along then trouble,” Jin says with a laugh, tugging him gently through the crowd, releasing him once they reach the exit and spill out onto the pavement.

The youngest bounce ahead, joking and laughing, banter flowing easily between them, the affection clear in the way Jimin threads his fingers through Jungkook’s, in the way Taehyung gently bumps hips with Jimin, in the way Jungkook smiles at the older two, small and private and overwhelmingly fond. Harry follows, falling into step with Namjoon and Jin, heart feeling inexplicably light.

Once they reach Jin and Namjoon’s apartment, the familiar wooden door looming in front of them, the trio troops up the stairs and let themselves in. Laughter floats out the open door and Harry hurries up the stairs after them, letting Namjoon and Jin bring up the rear. Inside, he sees Jimin and Taehyung engaged in what seems like an elaborate fake (there is a lot of slapping, pushing and giggling involved). Jungkook has removed himself from firing range, tucking himself onto the couch and out of the way, though he watches his bonded’s antics with fond amusement.

“You boys are lucky Yoongi isn’t here or you’d be in serious trouble,” Jin sighs, ducking around the tussling boys and heading for the kitchen.

Namjoon follows his bonded without a word, and the two begin preparations for what looks like a feast of ice-cream, complete with an obscene amount of various toppings.

“But hyungie isn’t here, so we’re fine!” Taehyung chirps with a cheeky grin, only to yelp when Jimin capitalizes on his moment of distraction and lands a strike to the back of his knee.

Harry edges around the scuffle and sits down next to Jungkook.

“Yoongi?” Harry says quietly, quirking a brow at the younger boy questioningly.

“Yoongi-hyungie and Hoseok-hyungie are away on a mini-holiday,” Jungkook says, hugging his knees to his chest and resting his cheek on them. “They usually keep Jiminie and Taetae in line when they get too rowdy.”

“Ahh,” Harry says, nodding to show his understanding.

“They should be back soon,” Jungkook adds. “You’ll get to meet them. I think you’ll like them.”

“We’ll see,” Harry hums, unwilling to get the boy’s hopes up by making false promises. Either the other two will like him or they won't, there is little Harry will be able to do to change that once they’ve made their decision.

A comfortable silence falls over them, only broken by the occasional squawk or giggle from the pair in front of them and the clinking of bowls on the kitchen counter top.

“Hey Kookie, do you mind if I ask you a question?” Harry says, several long moments later.

“Nope,” Jungkook says, popping the p for emphasis.

Harry licks his lips, “How did you all …” here he trails off, unsure how to ask.

“How did we know we were bonded?” Jungkook finishes with a knowing smile.

Harry nods quickly, curiosity thoroughly piqued.

“I meet Taetae first,” Jungkook says, eyes trained on his bonded. “He ran into the dorm kitchen while I was making tea and I was so startled I dropped my mug. He brushed the back of my hand with his when he was helping me pick up the shards and our bond snapped into place.”

Jungkook’s eyes are gentle and warm as he reminisces.

“Jiminie came a couple months after. Tae and I were happy, content even but it always felt like something was missing, like there was a piece of the puzzle just outside of our grasp. Tae met Jimine at school and Jimin’s nails changed when they shook hands. Tae was so happy, he dragged Jiminie home to meet me and literally threw him at me.” Jungkook laughs at the memory, a hand reaching up to rub at his forehead. “We found out we were a tri-bond when we asked Jimine what colours he remembered his nails being and realized he had both our colours."

“Wow,” Harry whispers, that wistful feeling from earlier returning with a vengeance. He hopes with all his heart that his soulmate makes him as happy as Jimin and Taehyung clearly make Jungkook.

“You’ll meet them soon enough hyungie,” Jungkook says softly, making Harry startle.

“What?” Harry manages, meeting the other’s gaze.

“Your soulmate,” Jungkook clarifies, nodding at Harry’s hands. “You get this far away look when you’re thinking about them and look so sad. But you shouldn’t worry because you’ll meet them and you’re going to be so happy, I just know it.”

Harry stares for a moment, before smiling, “Thanks Kookie, that means a lot to me.”

“Boys! Ice-cream is ready!” Jin calls from the kitchen.

Twin exclamations of glee echo from Jimin and Taehyung who instantly stop fighting and bound over to the kitchen counter.

Jungkook groans but eases to his feet and holds out a hand to Harry, “You coming hyungie?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world Kookie,” Harry says seriously, letting the younger boy pull him to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya guys! Firstly, sorry for the longer wait than usual between chapters - real life kinda got brutally chaotic (three jobs may just be my limit, who knew) and I have only had time to really hash something out now. Hopefully the double update will make up for it :) 
> 
> Secondly, a big shout out to my buddy Tipu who helped patch up a plot hole - you're literally too pure for this world <3
> 
> Thirdly, shout out to my buddies leftonread and IAOWHPD for their lovely comments and to all those who left kudos - y'all are my inspiration.

A loud buzzing noise makes Harry jump, flailing a little bit to keep his seat on the couch, even as he looks around for the source of the noise. He feels a little foolish when he spots his brand new phone, screen lit up and the little notification banner telling him he has a new message.

Although it’s been over a week since he bought the new phone, he still hasn’t adapted to the excessive assortment of chirps and vibration patterns the little device emits for various types of notifications. There is no doubt on his mind though that the upgrade had been a necessity – his tiny, out-dated, flip phone had not been made to withstand the barrage of text messages he had received after giving Jin permission to share his number with the other boys. The small screen and slow processing speed had been no match for the sheer quantity of incoming data, and the phone had begun to glitch and freeze and unexpectedly crash more and more frequently, until finally, Harry had bitten the bullet and bought a more functional smart phone. _“You’re finally entering the twenty first century Harry!”_ Hermione had teased as she showed him how to set it up and gave him a quick run down of the basic applications already installed.

Snapping his phone up, he quickly scans the text from Jungkook. 

_Hyungie! Wanna come 2 darts 2nite?-JK_

Before Harry has a chance to respond, another two messages follow on the heels of the first, in quick succession.

_Pleeeeease?-JK_

_Itll be fun!-JK_

And then, just as he’s gotten the first message open and is considering how he wants to respond, a fourth message comes in, this time from Jimin:

_Harry-ah hurry up and answer Kookie so he stops fidgeting-JP_

Harry starts painstakingly punching out a reply to the first message, only to be interrupted when his phone vibrates again. With a growl, he aggressively pokes at the screen to reveal the new message and stares for a long moment, incredulous, at the message from Taehyung.

“What does that even mean?” he despairs, staring at the string of emojis and random punctuation that make up the text. He tilts his head and squints at the screen before finally giving it up as a lost cause. “I don’t want to know,” he decides, closing the text and reopening the first message from Jungkook.

 _What time and where?_ Harry types, double and triple checking the message before hitting send. Not even a minute has past, when his phone vibrates again, signalling Jungkook’s reply. 

_Mt @ blu frog shooters bar and grll-JK_

And a couple seconds after that,

_@6-JK_

Followed by a slew of smiling emojis and a single thumbs up.

Harry blinks, then reads the message again, squinting at the shorthand Jungkook insists on using.

“I’m too old for this,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. 

“Harry, you’re 19 going on 20, not 19 going on 55,” Hermione says as she strolls into the room, a stack of books bobbing along next to her. “You’re still technically a teenager, you need to calm down with the old comments.”

“But I _feel_ old,” Harry says, flopping back in the chair to view her upside down as she flits from one bookshelf to the next, picking up new books and depositing old ones. 

“And why do you feel old Harry?” Hermione asks, voice tinged with amusement when she looks up and spies his less than conventional use of the couch.

“I can’t understand the youth of today, they talk in cryptic shorthand and don’t use proper grammar or punctuation.” Harry bemoans, flicking open the thread of messages from Jungkook to show her.

Hermione snorts and pads over to him, plucking his phone from his hand.

“Hyungie, wanna come to darts tonight? Pleeeease. It’ll be fun. Meet at the Blue Frog Shooters Bar and Grill at 6pm.” Hermione reads with little difficulty. She raises a brow and looks down her nose at him, “What was so difficult about that?”

“All of it Hermione,” Harry whines, staring up at her with a pitiful expression. “All of it. And I don’t even know how to play darts but I’ve already said I’ll go. I’m _doomed_.”

She stares at him blankly for several long seconds. The look on her face makes him wince a little, as it’s clear she’s questioning his intelligence.

“You have got to be kidding me Harry,” she finally says, rolling her eyes at him. “You’re the youngest seeker in century, you’ve literally spent years honing your hand-eye coordination to catch things that the untrained eye can barely _see_ and hit targets with a precision rarely seen outside of the Auror program. You’ll be fine, honestly you’re so dramatic sometimes.”

She lobs his phone back to him, the delicate device flying in a gentle arc through the air, but Harry can tell instantly that the throw will fall short, that on its current trajectory, the phone’s flight will meet its tragic end with the floor. With a strangled shout he leaps forward, reaching out with one hand to pluck the device from the air, heart pumping ridiculously fast in his chest. 

“Hermione what the hell?” Harry gapes at his best friend, one hand clutching his phone protectively to his chest. He frowns when he finds her smirking at him.

“See? You’ll be fine,” Hermione says, staring pointedly at the phone resting safely in his grasp. “Have fun at darts tonight.” Having said her piece, she tucks her wand behind her ear and makes her way back out of the room, stack of books following dutifully in her wake.

Harry stays on the couch, feeling oddly chastised but more confident about the coming evening. Flicking open his messages he finally responds to Jungkook’s latest text: _I’ll be there. See you at 6 Kookie :)_

\---

That night, Harry makes sure to arrive at the designated meeting place early, the memory of the barely averted disaster at the cinema fresh in his mind. Wand in hand and tucked neatly up his jumper sleeve, he scans the crowd, waiting for glimpse of the boys. As soon as he spies Namjoon, pink hair fluttering above the sea of people, he’s casting. The short string of spells flows easily from his core, wand movement and verbal intonation no longer necessary thanks to the many times he has cast this particular set of spells. An area wide Confundus to distract all those in the general vicinity, layered with a low-level Chameleon charm that, once combined with a mild Notice-Me-Not charm, renders the boys unrecognizable to everyone except himself and each other. Eyes will slide away from the group, attention thoroughly diverted by the magik, which will ensure that all those looking towards the boys will see, is a regular group of people and they will be compel to look no further than that. During the height of the war, he cast this string of spells so often, it became as instinctive as breathing and now all he needs to direct the flow of magic is a subtle twitch of his fingers.

“Harry-ah!” Namjoon grins, when he spies Harry, leading the group over. “I take it you had no troubles finding the place?”

“Only trouble was in deciphering Kookie’s slang and shorthand in his texting,” Harry said lightly, smiling at Jungkook to soften the critique.

“Is that what took you so long?” Jimin says, a look of dawning understanding filtering across his features. “Kookie elbowed me three times because he was wiggling so much waiting for you to reply.”

“Hyungie!” Kookie flushes a brilliant shade of red and shoves at Jimin’s arm that is draped over his shoulders. Jimin reels the younger boy in and plants a smacking kiss on his cheek, which makes the him flail all the harder to break free. 

 _Ahh true love,_ Harry thinks, raising a hand to cover his smirk. 

“I’ll go book us in,” Jin announces over the light squabbling that has broken out amongst the trio of soulmates. “Boys behave,” he adds sternly over his shoulder, before heading towards the counters at the front of the venue.

“Actually, I was able to decipher the slang eventually, but the successive texts were what really slowed me down,” Harry admits sheepishly. “Each time a new one came in, I had to start all over again.”

“You’ll just have to learn to type faster Harry-ah!” is Taehyung’s helpful contribution.

“We’re in lane 5,” Jin announces suddenly, startling everybody. 

“That was quick!” Namjoon says, staring at his soulmate in shock.

“I’m just that efficient Joonie-bug,” Jin smirks, ushering Harry forward and leading the way to their assigned lane.

The group spreads out along the ring of couches located towards the rear of the lane, well out of the way of the target board and game play. Jin distributes small bundles to each of the boys before turning to Harry.

“Here you go Harry-ah, these are your darts,” Jin says when he reaches Harry.

“Thanks hyungie,” Harry mumbles, looking down at the small bundle of three darts he now holds. Each has a thin, plastic tipped, metal point that tapers into a wider barrel like grip, before thinning back out into a short metal rod that is capped by a fan like tail. Harry absently pockets two of the darts, gripping the third gingerly by the barrel. He turns it in his hands, finger gently examining the bumps that line the grip and the smooth plastic ridges that make up the tail, getting a feel for the weight and heft of the dart.

“You’re most welcome Harry-ah,” Jin says, sitting down next to Namjoon. 

“We playing teams hyungie?” Jungkook asks, a competitive glint in his eyes.

“I think it might be for the best tonight,” Jin confirms and Harry feels like he should speak up before a group gets lumped with him unawares.

“Um, I feel like now would be a good time to come clean, I’ve never actually played darts before?” Harry says with his best, unsure-but-game smile.

Shocked silence greets his words.

Harry feels a weird sense of deja-vu, and pre-emptively reminds them, “Boarding school.” _and psychotic mad-men with a raging hard-ons for my dead body at their feet while they conquered all of Britain. But you know, mostly boarding school._

To their credit, the boys rally quickly, hastening to reassure him. 

“That’s okay Harry-ah, it’s pretty simple!” Namjoon says.

“It’s easy Harry-ah, you’ll pick it up in no time!” Taehyung says, boxy grin firmly in place. 

“Easy peasy!” Jungkook agrees with a nod.

“If Joon-hyungie can do it, anybody can!” Jimin says, dodging Namjoon’s retaliatory shove with a practiced ease.

“Hey!” Namjoon protests, but he’s smiling ruefully, like he knows the comment may have some truth behind it.

“It’s okay Joonie-babe, you’ll have your chance to show them,” Jin croons, patting Namjoon lightly on the shoulder. “Actually, Joon-bug, why don’t you go first while I explain the rules of the game to Harry-ah?”

“Sure Jin,” Namjoon gives Jin a besotted smile and leans over to give the blonde a kiss that lingers and takes pointed coughing and mock gagging from Taehyung and Jimin to break up.

“Alright alright,” Namjoon laughs, “I’m going!”

Standing, Namjoon squeezes Jin’s hand once before heading over to set up their lane. 

Jin sighs after Namjoon leaves them, a light blush dusting his checks, but he gamely resumes turns to Harry to give a rundown of the game. 

“Each person gets three throws per turn. We’re going to play in teams tonight, Harry-ah, you’ll be on mine and Joon’s team. The aim of the game is to reduce our initial score of 501 down to 0 by throwing at the dartboard. The segments are numbered and that number correlates to the number of points you win if you hit within that segment. If you hit the smaller, most outer rim, you double the segment score, so if you land a hit in the 4 segment, you’d score an 8. If you hit the more central smaller ring, you triple the segment score. So if you landed in the 4 segment, you would score a 12. A double bullseye, the small red dot in the centre of the board, is worth 50 and in the outer bullseye is worth 25 points. All three of your throws add up to your round total. You don’t need to worry about the rest of the rules Harry-ah because we’re playing for fun tonight. Just try to hit the board in one of the circles and do your best okay?”

“I mean, it sounds simple enough?” Harry says, eyes following Namjoon as the older boy steps up to the mark, mind processing the large amount of information from Jin at lightning speed. In front of them, Namjoon carefully lines up his shot, elbow tucked in neatly, using a two fingered grip, other fingers splayed in the air. The dart flies through the air, hitting the board with a low thunk, setting off a loud trumpeting sound and turning the board briefly green and gold, signalling a successful hit. Namjoon follows this up with two more darts in quick succession, each hitting larger segments of the outer circle of the board.

“You’ll get the hang of it quickly Harry-ah,” Jin reassures, as Namjoon strides forward to retrieve his darts, his score of 81 flashing on the screen.

“It’s pretty easy hyungie!” Jungkook adds, from where he is sprawled over Jimin, fingers twined with Taehyung.

“It sounds simple enough,” Harry says again, more confidently this time, thinking back over his brief introduction to the game. “Land in the outer rim and it doubles the segment, land in the inner rim and it triples the segment, double bullseye is worth 50 and outer bullseye is 25.”

“That’s it!” Namjoon says, sitting down next to Jin. “It’ll make more sense when you start throwing, I promise.”

“Boys, who wants to go first on your team?” Jin directs the question towards the trio of soulmates.

“Hyungie please?” Jungkook turns wide eyes on his soulmates, who both cave with little resistance, waving the youngest on.

Jungkook smirks and makes his way forward.

“Go and show them how it's done Kookie!” Taehyung shouts encouragingly, and Jin hushes him frantically, eyeing the other lanes around them warily.

Harry is glad at least one of them is aware of the dangers of being out in public like this, but Jin looks so worried that he almost wishes he could reassure him, that he could tell him about the spells that have been cast, tell him how Harry has already made sure they’re safe, if only so the older boy would relax and stop stressing about being found out. Harry remembers all too well the way it felt, having to be constantly alert, constantly aware of what image you were projecting, for fear of a camera or lucky reporter catching him out unawares. He knows intimately the feeling of being hunted, the way a single misrepresented moment could spiral out of control, the way the press would descend like a pack of rabid vultures scenting a kill. And yet, he hesitates, bites down hard on his tongue and forces himself to say nothing. For he knows just as well, the dangers of Mundanes finding out about magik, their inherent fear of the unknown, and the repercussions for breaking the Statue of Secrecy.

In front of them, Jungkook settles into position quickly, a fierce look of concentration settling over his face. The boy lashes out with three quick, successive throws. Each throw hits the board with a dull thunk, the board lighting up green and gold to proclaim a direct hit. 

“Wow,” Harry breathes, staring in shock as the youngest skips forward to retrieve his darts, his score of 150 still flashing on the screen.

“Our golden maknae,” Jin says fondly, standing up to congratulate the boy and take his own turn.

Jin gets a respectable score of 95 and is followed by Taehyung who scores a 76 and then suddenly it’s Harry’s turn.

“None of you are allowed to laugh at me when I epically fail at this,” Harry says pre-emptively as he stands. “I tried, therefore none of you should criticize me.”

“We won't,” Jungkook promises, even as Taehyung smirks and says, “Of course we will!”

“Tae!” Jin lightly scolds,

“You always tell us to tell the truth hyungie,” Taehyung protests, laughter clear in his voice.

“Aish! You’re going to give me stress lines I just know it!” Jin says aggrieved, shaking his head at the younger boy.

Harry throws back his head and laughs bodily as he moves towards the throwing line, the antics of the group washing over him and sending little bubbles of happiness fizzing through him, like bubbles of champagne swirling inside a crystal flute.

He doesn’t notice the sudden silence behind him or the looks thrown his way, too busy setting up his shot, body falling easily into the position he had watched Namjoon adopt. His attention hones in on his target, outside noises and distractions fading away. Using the grip he had seen the other boys utilize, he takes a deep breath and throws. The dart flies through the air and hits the very outskirts of the board with a dull thud, clinging precariously to the very bottom of the board. Harry frowns, turning the throw over in his mind as he retrieves his second dart from his pocket. Whilst he would never be the most stylistic or elegant of spell casters, accuracy training with Mad-Eye had ensured he became intimately in tune with how his body moved when casting spells. Dart throwing is skill that focuses on the hands and arms, the movements mimicking some of the spells he had trained, and been trained relentlessly with. It’s second nature to utilize his Occlumency to track the trajectory of the dart in his mind's eye, to note the way the dart had dipped lower than intended after release, to tag his loose elbow as the culprit, the drop of the joint instinctive preparation for a follow up spell, but ultimately counterproductive here.

“Don’t worry Harry-ah! Focus on your next throw!” Jin’s voice behind him breaks him out of his contemplation and makes Harry realize he had frozen in position, lost in thought.

Turning, Harry throws a sheepish grin at the others, before turning back to face the board. Taking a deep breath, he lines up his second shot. He focuses on his elbow, keeps it locked at his side, ensuring his grip remains light and loose on the dart. This throw is more accurate, and Harry gets a little thrill watching the board flash green, signalling a hit. Retrieving his final dart, he breathes slowly, focuses his attention on his target, and _releases_. The flood of green lighting up the board signalling another hit is inherently rewarding. Satisfaction blooms in his chest and Harry pads forward to retrieve his darts. He heads back to the group, a small pleased grin tugging at his lips.

“Not bad Harry-ah!” Namjoon praises as he sits back down. “You had a bit too much elbow movement in the first throw, which you corrected in your next two. Try to watch your wrist, you were flicking it a little on you last throw, but overall an excellent first try!”

“Thanks hyungie,” Harry says, studiously taking the feedback on board.

Jimin stands and takes his turn, and the night continues, Harry working on his throwing until the movement feels fluid and natural. He doesn’t realize how well he’s doing until Jimin pipes up, several rounds into the game, “Kookie it looks like you might have some serious competition!”

Harry blinks and looks over at Jimin curiously. 

“Harry-ah you’ve been throwing so well, you’ve caught your team up to our score,” Jimin points out.

“Oh, but surely that’s because of Namjoon and Jin-hyungie, and has nothing to do with me,” Harry says, looking to his teammates for support. 

“Nothing to do with you?” Namjoon says with a little disbelieving snort of laughter. “Harry-ah, if I didn’t know you better I’d say you were hustling us! You picked it up insanely fast.”

“Huh,” is all Harry can say.

He didn’t think he was actually doing anything all that impressive, but from the looks on the others faces, he has. 

He’s not sure how he feels about it.

On the one hand its awed attention that he has striven all his life to avoid. On the other, its attention that was gained through his own hard work and efforts not through some freak incident he had no control of.

“Hyungie, you better not throw the game because you think I might be upset that you can play,” Jungkook teases, moving forward confidently to take his place in front of the target.

The game continues, each team taking it in turns, and it finishes with Jungkook scoring a perfect score and winning the game for his team.

Jimin and Taehyung explode, running forward to fling themselves at their soulmate in jubilation. Jungkook turns around, with a triumphant grin only to be overwhelmed by the combined weight of the other two. Harry, Namjoon and Jin watch on in amusement as the three topple to the ground with a loud yelp from Jungkook and mad laughter from the other two.

“Joonie-babe, do you want to round up the kids?” Jin finally says, eyeing the crowd around them with a nervous eye. “I think it’s time we head home, it’s getting kind of late.”

“Your wish is my command, Jinnie,” Namjoon says. Harry watches as the pinkette heads over to the younger trio, who have ended up in a puppy pile on the floor, all curled around each other until there’s no telling who’s limbs belong to whom.

“Harry-ah,” Jin catches Harry’s attention. “It’s getting kind of late, I don’t feel comfortable with you heading out on your own. Would you like to stay the night with us and go home in the morning? We have more than enough space.”

“Oh hyungie, I’ll be okay,” Harry says earnestly, knowing that as soon as the others leave, he will just duck around the corner and apparate home, he’s not going to be stuck in the dark trying to find his way home. But he appreciates the older boys concern.

“I really don’t feel right letting you walk home,” Jin says, teeth chewing on his bottom lip, face tight with worry. 

Harry doesn’t know what to say.

He can’t tell the truth, the repercussions of such an act bind his tongue, words trapped behind his teeth. He wracks his brain, but can’t think of single lie that would reassure the older boy enough to let him go.

“If you’re sure you wouldn’t mind?” Harry hedges, thinking longingly of his own bed.

Jin’s face floods with relief, “I’m positive.”

 _Looks like I’m joining the boys for a sleepover,_ Harry thinks ruefully.

 ---

“Harry-ah, you can take Yoongi and Hoseok’s room, they won’t mind.” Jin reassures, ushering him into a medium sized bedroom.

A large king sized bed dominates the floor space, angled just off to the left of the door, coverings done in various shades of grey and black. On the other side of the room a chaise lounge sits just next to an overflowing bookshelf, an expensive looking pair of headphones nestled on one of the many pillows piled on top of the chaise, next to an abandoned notebook filled with scribbles and diagrams. A luscious floor rug sprawls out next to the bed and the artwork that lines the walls is tasteful and modern and visually appealing in a way that Harry had never felt in relation to art.

The room is clearly someone’s sanctuary away from the rest of the world and Harry feels uncomfortable at the prospect of intruding uninvited.

“Hyungie, I can sleep on the couch downstairs, I really don’t mind!” Harry says.

The _I’ve slept on much worse_ rests between them, unsaid but easily bought to light if only the older boy knew to ask. 

Secretly Harry wonders if he gets along so well with the boys because they _don’t_ know what to ask. They have no way of comprehending the sheer level of chaos that was his life up until a short while ago. In their company, he is able to pretend that he’s just a regular teenager. With them, he doesn’t have to be Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Man-Who-Conquered, War General and Saviour. He can pretend that he’s normal, pretend that he has nothing else to worry about except right now. With them, he can live in the moment and just be, he's able to pretend that he _can_ be just Harry.

“Harry-ah don’t be ridiculous!” Jin scolds lightly, turning down the covers of the bed and gesturing him over. “The boys won't mind you using their room for one night.”

“Are you sure hyungie?” Harry says, hovering next to the bed. He’s not sure what it is about the room, but he feels at peace here in a way that he only ever used to associate with Hogwarts and the Gryffindor Tower.

Jin places both hands on Harry’s shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze, “Harry-ah I’m positive.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Harry hedges, fingers playing with the strap of his satchel. 

“So very sure, Harry-ah!” Jin reassures, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Now get some sleep Harry-ah, you’ve had a big day.”

“Yes hyung,” Harry says, leaning slightly into the hand for just a moment, before stepping back and smiling at the older boy.

“Goodnight Harry-ah, sleep well!” Jin bids him as he slips back out into the corridor, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Harry looks around the room again and sighs.

 _I guess this is happening then,_ he thinks somewhat ruefully.

He sends a silent apology to the room’s owners before getting ready for bed. Trading his jeans for the more comfortable sweatpants (thoughtfully packed by Hermione, god he loves her, she thinks of everything) and placing his glasses gently on the bedside table. That done, he finally slides into the luxurious bed.

“Sweet Merlin on high,” Harry is too blissed out to be embarrassed by the moan of pleasure the escapes him when he’s finally situated under the covers.

 It’s like sitting on a cloud. 

The mattress sinks to accept his weight and hugs his body, all plush and warmth and comfort. Harry buries his face into the closest pillow with a sigh. For once, sleep finds him quickly, the scent that surrounds him (a combination of citrus, wood chips and something hauntingly familiar) lulling him into Morpheus’ embrace.

\---

Harry wakes slowly, and then all at once, sitting up in a bed that’s not his, in a room that is totally unfamiliar to him. His surroundings blur as he tries to determine _where_ he is and _why_ he feels so well rested (he can’t remember the last time he slept through a night, unbroken by nightmares).

 _Glasses,_ he realizes. _I need my glasses_.

Spotting what looks like a bedside table on one side of the bed, he shuffles along the mattress until he can just make out the sight of his glasses folded neatly next to a lamp, the solid black frames a comforting sight. Jamming them on his face, he blinks when he finally realizes where he is.

Yoongi and Hoseok’s room.

At Jin and Namjoon’s flat.

Slumping against the headboard, he looks around for his satchel. Spotting it sitting next to the bedside table, he leans over and snags it, lifting it into his lap so he can rifle through it for his wand. Wand acquired, he absently attaches it to his arm as he strains his hearing to determine what the rest of the household is doing. Now that he’s paying attention, he notices the sound of footsteps approaching the door. They shuffle slowly past the room he has currently claimed as his own and continue further down the hall, heading towards the stairs.

Never one to laze in bed, Harry collects his things and slips out of the room.

Padding quietly down the stairs, he spies Jin flitting about the kitchen, Namjoon slumped over on a stool, sipping from a mug. 

“Good morning hyungies,” Harry calls softly, and is startled by the way both light up upon seeing him.

“Harry-ah!” Jin positively beams as he ushers him into the kitchen. “Good morning! How did you sleep?”

“Better than ever,” Harry admits as he slides onto a stool next to Namjoon. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Jin says, grin softening into a much warmer, but no less bright, smile. “I’m just starting on breakfast. You can sit there and keep Namjoon company or you’re more than welcome to set the table if you’d like?”

Harry hesitates, torn.

Does he sit with Namjoon and keep him company or help Jin with breakfast? A large part of him rebels at the thought of letting Jin do all the work, but equally, he doesn’t want to abandon Namjoon, who looks like he’s about to fall asleep in his mug any second now.

“I’ll set the table?” he says, checking Jin’s face for a hint towards the correct answer.

“Go on,” Jin says with a wink. “Joonie needs at least two more coffees before he’ll be good company.”

A rush of relief leaves him light headed (he’d chosen _correctly_ ) but he pushes past it, jumping lightly down from his stool and collecting the necessary components to set the table for breakfast. He’s setting the last mug on its proper place on the table when Jin bustles into the dining room, Namjoon dutifully following behind him with a tray piled high with bacon and eggs.

“Perfect timing Harry-ah,” Namjoon says with a crinkle-eyed smile in his direction, looking much more awake now. 

“Come sit Harry-ah!” Jin calls, beckoning him over.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the others?” Harry says, watching wide eyed as Jin starts loading his plate high with food. 

“The boys know what time breakfast is. The smell of bacon is usually enough to rouse them though, so they should be along any moment now,” Namjoon says, leaning over to pour Harry a drink of orange juice.

“Thank you hyungies,” Harry says, before shooing the two older boys off to their own breakfasts.

The room descends into silence only broken by the chink of serving utensils on ceramic bowls. Harry uses both hands to construct an egg and bacon sandwich, carefully layering the protein over the meat before dousing the whole lot in ketchup, gleefully imagining Hermione's scandalised look at the concoction.

"Harry-ah, what's that on you hand?" Jin asks, a frown tugging at his lips.

Harry glances down at his hands to see what Jin is talking about, but can't see anything that would have drawn the other's attention.

"Hmm?" he makes an inquiring noise in the back of his throat, looking up at the older boy quizzically.                                                             

Telegraphing his movements, Jin reaches out and grasps him gently, but firmly, by the wrist. Long, slim fingers skim over the back of his right hand, and, without even looking, Harry knows what it is that has caught the other’s attention.

"Oh, that?" he says, watching as Jin traces the words carved into the back of his hands. "Memento from a school detention."

"Detention?!" Jin practically shrieks. "What type of detention leaves a mark like that!"

Harry winces, "Oh, you know," he has to work hard to resist the urge to fidget. "Writing lines, typical detention stuff."

Namjoon leans across the table, to get a better look at his hands. "Are those _words_  carved into your  _skin_?"

Shit.

He’d forgotten that out of all the boys, Namjoon was practically fluent in English.

Harry frees his hand with a deft twist of his wrist and casually places it on his thigh, under the table and completely out of sight to the rest of the table. Best not give him any time to actually _read_ the words that now permanently decorate his skin, or provide the pinkette with enough time to notice that the penmanship is a perfect match for his own. He hastens to reassure the two men staring at him in horror, "It was just writing lines,"  _with a Blood Quill_ "which was a common punishment at my school,"  _but didn't usually involve the use of a dark artefacts_  "it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"Anymore?” Namjoon’s eyes are sharp, his gaze focused, and Harry doesn’t miss the way Jin has stiffened next to him at the implication.

Double shit. 

“Look it’s really not a big deal,” Harry tries, because it isn’t really.

He’d dealt with it, just like he always had, and it’s not like he’s the only one with permanent reminders of how awful fifth year had been. Gryffindor was the house of the brave, not the smart, nor the cautious, and amongst his housemates it had become more uncommon to _not_ have a mark on the back of your hand, particularly given the way Umbridge handed out detentions like candy to those unwilling to toe the Ministry’s party line. Hell, half of his housemates had worn their scars with an almost spiteful pride, the marks becoming badges of honour showing that you had refused to be cowed by the fluffy pink monstrosity that had called herself their DADA teacher. Harry had never been proud of his marks, but he’d also never been ashamed of them. They’d just been more scars added to the plethora of markings that already littered his skin. He’d just been glad that the markings on his left hand ( _I must not break rules)_ had faded over and weren’t as noticeable as those on his right. He mulishly shoves an obscenely large strip of bacon into his mouth, cheeks bulging around the mouthful, making it impossible to answer any more questions.

Jin isn’t deterred, leaning forward in his seat and turning wide beseeching eyes his way.

“Harry-ah,” the older boy starts and Harry cringes in his seat. 

It’s the tone.

The one that wraps around the syllables of his name and _oozes_ concern, the low, almost cajoling pitch aimed to soothe and calm and make him _trust_. It precedes every single uncomfortable conversation he has ever been forced to sit through about his feelings, upbringing or the trials he faced every year during his Hogwart days. It is the harbinger that heralds the opening of a can of worms that Harry firmly wishes would stay shut, curse it all, he’s _fine_.

"Jin," Namjoon says quietly, but firmly.

 _Meaningfully_.                          

Jin closes his mouth with a click and turns furious eyes on his soulmate.

Harry takes the reprieve to shovel more food into his mouth, watching covertly through his fringe, as the soul matched pair converse without words across the table. He could use magik to cheat and get a reading on the other’s silent conversation, but he refuses to violate their privacy over something like this.

A whisper of sound draws his attention and he glances surreptitiously at the other occupants of the room to see if they noticed. The sound is repeated twice, and is followed by muffled footsteps shuffling above them, and Harry relaxes when he realizes, the others have awoken. He keeps one ear out for their approach and turns back to Jin and Namjoon, who have escalated to pointed looks and exaggerated frowns.

At some unspoken signal, the pair turn back to Harry, who resists the urge to squirm under their combined gaze.

“Harry-ah—” Jin starts but is cut off by a shouted exclamation of “Food!”

Jimin bursts into the dining room, sleep rumpled and all but bursting with energy. “It smells delicious hyungie!” He darts around the table and practically throws himself into a seat where he promptly starts loading up a plate. 

“Morning hyungie!” Taehyung bounces into the dining room next, practically throwing himself at Namjoon for a hug.

Namjoon squawks and just manages to push back from the table in time to catch him, “Aish! Tae, we talked about this! Warning!”

“I said good morning hyungie, what more warning do you need?” Taehyung seemed genuinely confused, but Harry didn’t believe him for a minute, the mischief hiding in the half smirk and dark eyes a dead give away that the boy was being deliberately obtuse to anyone who thought to look.

Jungkook announces his presence with a quietly mumbled, “Morning hyungie,” sliding into place next to Harry and reaching for the bacon.

Harry leans over to nick a piece of toast, even as he murmurs a greeting to the youngest and catches Jin staring at him with a frown that the older boy tucks away when he notices Harry looking, reaching up to hand the bread bowl to Taehyung further down the table. Harry wonders for just a moment what conclusions the eldest had been drawing, what conclusions he had reached during his observation and through his actions, unguarded as they have been since he started hanging out with these boys.

Then he decides he really doesn’t care.

 _As long as they don’t ask him about it, they can do whatever they hell they want with their conclusions,_ he decides, turning back to his food.

“Hyungie, when are Hobi and Suga coming home?” Taehyung asks, peering over at Jin with a small pout.

“Yoongi said they’d be back within the week,” Jin shares, and Harry feels a sudden flare of anxiety ignite in his belly.

It has become apparent to him over the short time he has known the boys that Yoongi and Hoseok are the missing puzzle piece that makes this group a whole. He wonders if they’ll like him, if they’ll accept him intruding upon this little family.

 _Time will tell,_ he thinks, biting down into his toast.

Time will tell indeed. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, Hobi and Suga make an appearance!
> 
> Also, just a quick heads up, this chapter has graphic depictions of child abuse in it. If that squicks you out, then this chapter is not for you, sorry.

Harry loves winter.

He revels in the cooler temperatures and crisp, refreshing air. He adores the slow creep of warm orange, yellow and red that bleaches the green from the leaves, transforming the landscape into multi-coloured pieces of art. He enjoys the satisfaction derived from the crunch of a particularly good leaf underfoot. But he especially loves the return of the spiced pumpkin flavoured items. He takes another sip of his spiced pumpkin latte, procured from Starbucks, and closes his eyes to savour it. The explosion of flavour that hits his tongue floods him with memories of Hogwarts, laughing and sharing meals with his housemates, warming him as much as the heat generated by the beverage.

Harry hums happily, cradling his latte with both hands.

God he loves winter.

Later he will wish that he stopped to enjoy his beverage somewhere out of the way, rather than in the middle of the street.

But well, you know what they say about hindsight and all that.

He goes to take another sip of his latte when something hard _slams_ into his back, punching the air from his lungs and disrupting his balance.

One minute he's savouring his drink.

The next his eyes are snapping open in time to watch in dismay as his latte hits the pavement. He doesn't have any time to mourn the fallen beverage, for he is in very real danger of following his latte to an unpleasant collision with the ground. He grimaces as he sees the ground speeding towards him, resigning himself to the inevitable bruises and an up close and personal with Seoul’s sidewalk. 

Out of nowhere, a hand grabs the back of his jacket, tugging sharply, reversing his momentum and hauling him bodily back onto his feet. He stumbles and a hand shoots forward, clasping his own. Another braces him by the shoulder, helping him plant his feet firmly and regain his balance.

Harry looks up intending to thank his saviour, and feels the world grind to a halt.

Two gentlemen are standing in front of him, looking at him in concern. The one hovering to his left is a flutter of motion, babbling a mile a minute.

"Oh, oh no! I can't believe we've done this, we're never going to be allowed out in public again! We just mowed down a citizen, oh no! Hyungie is gonna kill us! Sir are you alright?"

Harry barely hears him.

Barely registers anything, eyes fixated on one thing. 

Mint green.                                 

The shaggy mop of mint green hair the man currently holding his hand is sporting.

The exact shade that currently graces his nails.

_His nails!_

His eyes shoot to his hand, which is still wrapped in the other man's surprisingly firm grip.

A band of gold winks up at him, almost swallowed by the dark green ( _worriedanxious_ ) with swirls of plum purple ( _guiltyremorseful_ ) that positively flood the planes of his nails.

A bolt of joy zings through his stomach, followed by a wave of relief so powerful it almost takes him to his knees.

He found him.

His soulmate.

The long wait was totally worth it, Harry thinks dazedly, gazing at his soulmate in wonder.

His soulmate who's starting to look at him like a crazy person, Harry realizes.

He's been silent too long. He needs to fix this, needs to say something witty and clever—

"Soulmate," he blurts, and instantly wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.

 _Subtle Potter. Real subtle._  

The other man drops his hand like he's been burned. The nervous fluttery one stops speaking immediately, drawing closer to Harry's soulmate, and there’s something inherently protective about it that draws Harry’s attention, makes the war veteran in him perk up and notice. 

But it’s quickly drowned under the deliriously happy chant of  _soulmatesoulmatesoulmatesoulmate_ , currently stuck on loop in his head.

"We're soulmates," Harry tries again, holding up his hand to flash him his nails.

Something dark flashes across his soulmate’s face and Harry instantly knows he’s said something wrong. Not for the first time, Harry curses his rotten luck, bracing himself for the oncoming confrontation.

"Hyungie, don't," the nervous fluttery man pleads, hands outstretched as if to placate.

"Don't fucking hyungie me Hope," Harry's soulmate snarls, turning mercurial brown eyes on Harry.

"How fucking sick are you?" the other man demands, and Harry finds himself taking a step backwards in an attempt to escape the pent up rage that practically radiates from him.

Harry’s happiness, his joy and relief at finding his soulmate drain away faster than water swirling down a drainpipe. In all his dreaming and fantasizing about the day he’d meet his soulmate, he’d never imagined this.

Harry opens his mouth, to say what he doesn't know, desperate to salvage this situation (how could it have gone so wrong?), but snaps his mouth shut when the other man actually growls at him, lips curled into an ugly sneer.

"Do you think this is a fucking game? Huh? Do you? Tell me, what the fuck did you think was gonna happen huh? Did you think you'd flash your nails at me and I'd what? Fall into your lap and we'd ride off into the fucking sunset to our happily ever after?"

Harry flinches at the way his soulmate throws words at him like weapons, each of them landing with impeccable aim in the soft, vulnerable underside of his heart. The vitriol and disdain that practically drips from each word ~~so very like the venomous undertone of his Aunt’s rants and his Uncle’s lectures~~ the equivalent of salt rubbed into open wounds.

"God! People like you disgust me. Well you've gotten your reaction, I hope you're fucking pleased with yourself."

Harry can hear a ringing in his ears, cutting through the static in his head. 

_How fucking sick are you?_

He feels numb, like he's not in control of his own body.

_People like you disgust me._

_Worthless._

_People like you disgust me._

_Useless._  

 _How fucking sick are you?_  

 _FREAK_.

His relatives’ words mingle with his soulmate’s, a canopy of sound that threatens to overwhelm him completely.

Enough.

With a Herculean effort, he grasps his tattered mental shields and heaves. Occlumency shields rise into place with a near audible snap. The raging inferno of emotion is doused in an instant, like a wave of sand stealing the oxygen from a bushfire.

His mind is blissfully, achingly, silent. 

He stands for a moment, head lowered, fringe shielding his face and hiding his expression. Only when he feels the last whisper of  _despairbetrayalhurt_  fade away, like a trickle of sand poured from a shoe, does he look up.

"I'm sorry for bothering you sir," Harry says, forcing himself to meet his soulmate’s eyes. With his shields up, it doesn't hurt but he knows the memory of the disgust in his soulmate’s gaze will haunt his dreams.

His soulmate’s companion looks slightly panicked and opens his mouth as if to say something. Harry feels his shields quake and knows he needs to end this and get somewhere safe before he is completely compromised. 

 _Again. Completely compromised again because our soulmate doesn’t want us. He thinks we’re a freak_ , his inner voice is heartbreakingly young and he has to close his eyes against the moisture that is threatening to fall, has to swallow hard around the painful lump in his throat.

Now is not the time to fall apart.

He brutally clears his mind, shoving all the hurt into the farthest corner of his mind to deal with later, tightening his grip on his mental shields until he feels nothing, nothing except the cold that is steadily turning the blood coursing through his veins into ice, an unsettling hollow feeling settling deep inside his chest. 

He feels _nothing_.

"I’m sorry for bothering you,” he says again, voice devoid of inflection, much like his body has become devoid of all emotion. “It won’t happen again. Have a good day, the both of you.”

With a shallow bow in his soulmate’s direction, Harry pivots on his heel and finally gives in to the desperate urge to flee, ignoring the desperate "Wait!" that tears from his soulmate’s companion.

Harry will not wait.

There is nothing for him here.

\---

Namjoon hits pause on the audio program, eyebrows furrowing as he listens closely.

There it is again, a soft scraping sound by the front door. 

That’s the third time he’s heard it.

“Jin,” he calls, pushing away from his desk. 

“In the kitchen Joonie-bug.”

He follows his soulmates voice, and pauses in the doorway, watching as his soulmate flits about the kitchen.

“What is it love?” Jin asks, placing a fry pan on the stovetop.

“Are we expecting anyone?” he asks, keeping his ears pricked. 

There’s the sound again.

“The maknae line is in the lounge room, Suga and Hobi are due within the hour and Harry said he’d swing by later,” Jin rattles off, brow furrowed as he concentrates on adding chicken to the sizzling pan. Job done, he turns to look at his soulmate in the doorway. “Why, what’s wrong Joon?”

“Nothing, Jin,” he’s quick to reassure the elder, stepping forward to press a kiss to his soulmate’s forehead. “I just think there is someone at the door. I’m going to go check now.”

“Sing out if you need me,” his soulmate calls after him, turning back to the pan.

Namjoon makes his way over to the front door and throws it open.

A slight figure stumbles, clearly startled and Namjoon hurriedly reaches out to steady them by the shoulders. A glance down reveals a familiar mop of messy black curls and he blinks in shock.

“Harry?” he asks, concern spiking when he realizes the other boy hasn’t moved – the boy is usually so skittish around contact with anyone other than Jungkook and Jin, that he half expects the boy to shy away and out of reach, even now. 

“Hi hyungie,” the boy mumbles into his shoulder, sagging slightly in his hold, as if he can no longer bear to carry his own weight. 

“Harry what’s wrong?” Namjoon gently slides his hands up the boy’s side, subtly checking for injury. The boy does nothing to stop him, pressing closer and burrowing into his chest, sending a bolt of alarm through him.

“Everything, hyungie, everything’s wrong and I don’t think I can fix it.”

It’s little more than a sigh, and Namjoon feels his heart break at the desolate tone. Circling his arms around the boy, he cradles him close.

“Joonie, who is it?”

 Jin comes out of the kitchen, wiping his hands dry on a tea towel, and freezes when he spots them. 

“Harry!”

Jin crosses the room in three long strides, pulling Harry into an embrace. Namjoon relinquishes the boy to his soulmates hold, glad that he’s there because he has no idea how to deal with this.

“Hyungie,” the boy melts into Jin, burying his face in the other’s shoulder as he begins to tremble.

“What happened?” Jin mouths at him over the top of the boy’s head. 

Namjoon shrugs to show he has no idea, and watches as his soulmate takes charge. 

“Harry-ah?” Jin croons, carding a hand through the messy hair. “I need to see your face sweetie.”

The younger male whines, attempting to burrow closer.

Jin remains firm, and Namjoon watches as his soulmate gently extracts himself from the embrace, keeping one arm curled around the vulnerable boy’s shoulders.

“What happened Harry?” Jin tucks a single finger under the boy’s chin and tilts his head gently up.

Harry tries to smile at the older boy, and Namjoon wants to punch something when it fails to reach his eyes. Harry had taken a while to warm up to their group, but lately his smiles had been warmer, bigger, brighter. He had  _laughed_ the other night, the sound rich and hearty, pure joy and happiness, such a difference from the wary and guarded boy he had met at the supermarket. And now they're right back where they started. It makes him want to break something. 

“I met my soulmate hyungie,” Harry says sardonically, lifting a hand to show off his nails.                                                                

Namjoon feels his mouth drop open, but before he can say anything his soulmate is talking. 

“Joonie, can you go and check on the chicken love?”

 Namjoon snaps his mouth shut and looks over at his soulmate, takes in the pointed look, the minute shake of head and understands.

“Sure thing Jin,” Namjoon steps forward to draw them both into a brief hug, presses a kiss to Jin’s cheek and makes a hurried exit, confident in the knowledge that Jin has the situation well in hand.

“Oh Harry,” he hears Jin say, as he steps through into the kitchen.

\---

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jin asks, tucking him back into his side and Harry leans further into the older boy’s side even as he shakes his head in the negative. 

Jin just sighs and lets him hide in his embrace for a long moment.

Finally though, the older male pulls away.

"The boys are in the lounge room," Jin says, voice oh so gentle, like he's trying not to spook him. Which is silly because Jin’s the least scary thing Harry has ever come into contact with. He’d know. He’s practically an expert on scary things. He could write a manual, no a series of manuals detailing all the scary things he had come across in his short life.

"Why don't you go join them?” Jin prompts when Harry doesn’t say anything. “Lunch won't be far away." 

Harry wonders if his eyes reflect how dead he feels inside. If that is the case, he understands why Jin is staring at him with such concern. It's like someone has taken a wooden spoon and scrapped the very essence of his humanity out, leaving him hollow and aching.

Harry suddenly realizes the other man is still waiting on a response.

"Okay," he manages, turning around to leave. 

He doesn't get far before warm arms wrap around him, tucking him into a broad chest. Harry doesn't even fight it, too numb to even care. Instead he turns and buries his face in Jin's shoulder, soaking up the comfort the other is freely offering. 

"It's going to be okay kiddo," Jin whispers, carding a hand through Harry's hair. "You'll see."

Harry doesn't really believe him, but let's himself burrow further into the other man’s warmth, hiding from the world. Jin cradles him close for several long moments before pulling back.

"I won't be long okay?" Jin says, brown eyes scanning Harry's face as he waits for his answer.

"Okay," Harry says again, not wanting to worry the other boy any further but unable to dredge up the positive emotions that would stop the older from fussing. 

"Go on," Jin leans forward to drop a swift kiss on Harry's forehead, before ushering him towards the lounge room.

Harry forces his lips into a smile (judging from the increased worry radiating from the older boy he fails miserably) before shuffling through into the lounge room. He pauses in the doorway, taking in the positions of the three boys inside.

Jimin is lying on the floor, head propped on Taehyung’s stomach. Jungkook is curled up on the couch watching his soulmates with fond amusement.

"Scapula!" Taehyung calls out, boxy grin firmly in place.

Jungkook looks up and spots Harry hovering in the doorway and waves.

On the floor, Jimin whines wordlessly, turning his head away.

"Scapula Jiminie!" Taehyung scolds, leaning down to poke at the boy currently using him as a pillow.

Harry skirts around the two boys on the floor and slinks over to the couch.

"Hi Kookie," he whispers, sinking down into the couch next to the younger boy.

"Hi hyungie!" The youngest beams up at him, revealing his cute bunny teeth. 

Harry feels his lips tug into an automatic smile in response, a small quirk of his lips, but a genuine smile nonetheless, and wonders if Jin knew when he sent him in here that he’d be unable to remain in his fugue state. In the face of the younger boy’s happiness, he is powerless against the tiny bud of warmth growing in his chest.

"Tae my brains gonna explode, I can't think of a single colour," Jimin wiggles away from the finger poking him, drawing all attention back to the two boys lying on the floor.

"It's not that hard Chim!" Taehyung pouts, sitting up fully and taking advantage of his longer limbs to tackle the smaller boy.

Harry feels a sliver of curiosity skitter across the back of his mind before disappearing back behind his fortified mental shields.

Yet the sliver is enough.

Even as a child he’d never been able to quash his curiosity, hell knows even the Dursleys hadn’t been able to beat it out of him, and his Hogwarts years practically speak for themselves. Now that his attention has been caught, the thought of not knowing gnaws at him, niggling like an unscratched itch.

He sits for a moment longer before giving in to the inevitable.

Turning to the boy next to him he asks, “What’s going on?”

"Tae and Jiminie are playing a colour association game," Jungkook explains quietly, eyes on the two boys tussling on the floor. "Tae will name a bone and Jimin-hyungie has to call out a colour."

Harry wrinkles his nose, what would that even achieve?

"Tae likes colour association games coz he likes to learn colour names," Jungkook says, as if sensing Harry's confusion. "Plus the bones are helping him study for his upcoming biology exam. Or so he says. I think he just likes tormenting hyungie."

On the floor, Taehyung has somehow managed to flip and reverse their positions. He is now perched victoriously on the smaller boy’s stomach, fingers digging into the sensitive skin of Jimin's ribs.

Harry leans further into the couch and lets the boys antics wash over him.The bud that had been steadily growing deep in his stomach unfurls and begins to bloom, fed by the easy acceptance from the boys and the familiarity of the tussle on the floor. A rush of warmth ( _happiness, friendship and family_ ) trickles into the hollow space between his ribs, thawing out the numbness in his limbs, and he finally feels safe enough to relax his hold on his mental shields. Harry suspects that Jin knew exactly what he was doing sending him in here. But he can’t find it in himself to be mad at the subtle manipulation when he feels so safe and _warm_.

"Scapula Jiminie! Scapula!" Taehyung shouts gleefully, fingers relentlessly tickling the smaller boy.

"Tae! S-stop!" Jimin gasps out between giggles, wiggling helplessly beneath the other.

"Not until you name a colour!" Taehyung is relentless in his assault, and Jimin’s giggles fill the lounge room.

"Scapula!" Taehyung says, poking the other boy repeatedly in the shoulder.

Harry has a sudden flash of Vernon standing over him, a foot slamming into his shoulder, bone snapping with a sickening crack.

"Pink," he mumbles, remembering the flamingo pink of his nails that had set off his Uncle's temper that day. 

He becomes acutely aware of the sudden silence around him and looks up.

“You’ve done it now hyungie,” Jungkook mutters to him, and Harry is forced to agree when he takes in the almost predatory smile on Taehyung’s face.

"Harry-ah is my new best friend!" Taehyung declares, springing up from the floor and launching himself onto the couch.

Harry is jostled by the move and finds himself shifting closer to Jungkook to avoid Taehyung's flailing limbs.

"What?" Jimin squawks from the floor.

"New best friend!" Taehyung singsongs.

He leans forward suddenly, until his nose nearly touches Harry's, eyes alight with mischief. Harry squeaks at the sudden movement and invasion of his space, jerking back and nearly toppling off the couch as his balance is disrupted. A lanky arm winds around his waist, reeling him backwards.

"Careful hyungie," the youngest murmurs, holding Harry close.

Harry looks up at his saviour and finds himself leaning further into Jungkook, burrowing into the younger boy’s chest. The other boy is a line of heat at his back, chasing away the remnants of the chill that had permeated his body.

Harry is struck by a sudden realization. He doesn’t need his soulmate. Not really. His soulmate had always represented unconditional love and positive regard. Something his friends, his chosen family, have always provided for him. And whilst it hurts, thinking of what could have been, it’s a hurt he can live with. He’s had a lot of practice living with hurts, big and small, and this one pales in comparison to the love and affection offered so freely by these boys.

These boys and his siblings are enough for him.

 _They have to be now_ , a little sardonic voice whispers, wrapped in the tendrils of heartache and despair at the knowledge that his soulbonded will remain forever out of his reach. Harry firmly takes that voice and shoves it back into the box of things labelled Things That Will Never Be Acknowledged Or See the Light of Day Again, slamming the lid ruthlessly shut. The title is a work in progress. 

"Thanks Kooks," Harry says, deliberately relaxing further against the younger boy. He’s rewarded with another bunny-tooth smile

"Harry-ah!" Taehyung whines, leaning forward again to get his attention.

"Yes Taehyungie?" Harry can't help the fond amusement in his tone.

"You're supposed to play with me!" the other boy demands petulantly.

"Right, sorry," Harry hides a grin and focuses back on the older boy. "I'm ready now."

"Good!" Taehyung beams at him. "We'll start easy! Ready? Ulna!"

"Lavender," Harry says, and doesn't think of being five years old, so proud of his purple nails. Doesn't think of Vernon's hand wrapped around his skinny arm. Doesn't think of the cruel glint in his uncle's beady eyes or the horrific snap and the following flash of white-hot pain.  

"Yay! Next one!" Taehyung claps happily. "Tibia!" 

"Cobalt blue," Harry says, shaking his head slightly to rid himself of the memory of teetering at the top of the stairs.

Of hands roughly planted in the middle of his back, shoving him over the edge. 

Of Dudley's mocking laughter ringing in his ears. 

Of the swooping feeling of his stomach turning over, the spine tingling, nausea inducing, moment of free-fall.

Of the excruciating landing, fissures of red-hot pain spiking up his leg.

"Phalanges!" comes Taehyung's cheerful shout, jolting him back to the present.

"Crimson," Harry says.

 _His aunt’s face is coldly furious as she brings the fry pan down on his hand, crushing the delicate bones of his finger_ s.

"Pelvis!"

"Dandelion yellow."

_A car bares down on him, Vernon's eyes lit with a manic glee, the knowledge he isn’t going to be able to move fast enough to escape the collision burning a hole in his stomach and he closes his eyes, resigned to his fate._

“Mandible!”

“Sapphire.”

_A meaty fist connects with his jaw. Something gives way with a sickening crunch and suddenly his teeth are too big for his mouth, like they no longer fit. His jaw shifts unnaturally, elastic skin not enough to hold the fragments of bone in place._

He's jolted out of the memory when something thin and pointy jabs him in the ribs ( _feet slamming into his side. His uncle screaming incoherently at him, spittle flying from twisted lips, face cranberry pink. A golf club brought down on his unprotected side, over and over again._ )

He twists violently to escape, arms coming up to protect himself and it's only years of suppressing his emotional reactions that allows him to strangle the shout clawing its way from his throat into a near silent whimper.

"Harry-ah?" A voice cautiously asks. 

Harry peels his eyes open (when did he shut them?) to find Taehyung and Jimin peering at him in concern and alarm. He doesn't have to look to know Jungkook is also worried - the arm that had been wrapped around his waist is now clamped across his hips, a protective band anchoring him to the present.

"Sorry," Harry mumbles, ducking his head so that his fringe covers his eyes. "Ticklish."

The boys in front of him exchange a look, and then Jimin sits forward on his knees, opening his mouth to say something, an earnest expression on his face. What it is Jimin was going to say though, Harry will never know, because at that exact moment, raised voices from the kitchen make all four of them turn to look at the doorway.

“I don't care hyungie!" a suspiciously familiar voice suddenly rings out.

Rapid footsteps follow and a man bursts through the door into the lounge.

No, surely Fate is not so cruel.

The mint green hair stands out like a beacon, confirming what he knew the moment he heard his voice. 

It's his soulmate.

Harry feels his stomach turn over, like he was going to be sick.

This can't be happening, he thinks somewhat desperately, swallowing against the sudden mouthful of bile.

But it is. 

The other man seems to hone in on Harry, ignoring the other three boys in the room.

"You!" he snarls, stepping further into the room.

Harry feels his shoulders curl in protectively, hates the way he instinctively makes himself smaller in the face of such explosive anger. He's the god damn Boy Who Lived, Man Who Conquered and countless other dumb titles that have been tacked onto his name over the course of his relatively short life. He shouldn't be cowering and trying to sink into the couch cushions. Yet the simmering tension presses in on him from all sides and with his shaky mental shields wreaking havoc on his mental state, it’s hard to remember exactly why he shouldn’t be afraid. His soulmate crosses the short distance between them quickly, looming over him and Harry can’t help but shrink further into Jungkook's hold. 

"Yoongi-hyung, what—" Taehyung has sat up, raising his hands as if to placate the older male.

"Shut up Tae," Harry's soulmate (Yoongi, he reminds himself) says through clenched teeth.

"Yoongi-yah!" Jin reprimands sharply, having followed the other man into the lounge. Harry can see Namjoon and the nervous man from earlier crowding in the doorway.

"How do you know my colours?" Yoongi completely ignores everyone else in the room, throwing the question at Harry like one would a particularly sharp object. 

"What?" Harry feels his brow furrow in his confusion, can practically taste the rest of the rooms bewilderment. 

"MY COLOURS!" Yoongi roars, and Harry can't quite restrain his flinch.

"Yoongi-yah!" Namjoon's voice cracks out like a whip, disapproval evident. 

"Shut the fuck up Joon," Yoongi never takes his eyes off Harry, stalking closer to the couch.

His soulmate misses the way the others gape at him, but Harry can see the shock and disbelief clear as day. His grasp of the Korean honorific system is still relatively new, but he knows the dropping of the honorific in this situation is significant – given the looks on the other boys’ faces, the blatant disrespect towards Namjoon is both as uncalled for as he thinks it is, and completely unprecedented.

The sinking feeling is back. 

He just knows this is not going to end well.

Not for the first time, Harry curses the Potter luck and wishes that Fate would leave him alone and find a new play toy. 

"My.  _Colours_." Yoongi enunciates, as if Harry was a particularly daft child, each word dripping in scorn. "How do you know my colours? How long have you been following me? Haven't you ever heard of the word privacy? Hmm? Have you? How fucking dare you!"

"Your colours?" Harry grabs onto the only part of the rant that made any sense. "I don't understand. They're my colours. I'm your so-" 

"SOULMATE?" Yoongi bellows, and Harry feels Jungkook's arm fall away, hears Jin gasp, sees the two boys on the floor scramble around to stare at him in disbelief.

He has to swallow several times around the lump that has formed in his throat.

 _Please_ , he finds himself begging in a way he hasn’t done since he was five and too young to know that if there were higher powers, they weren’t listening and they sure as hell weren’t going to save you.

 _Please_.

He has no idea what he's asking for, but he feels dangerously close to breaking, like he’s going to crack apart, right down the centre, and just shake apart into a thousand tiny pieces.

"I can't fucking believe you," his soulmate quietly seethes, words cutting through the sudden silence. "I literally can not believe you. The actual audacity! You should be ashamed of yourself, you really should. Colours are sacred, and yet you dare to claim mine? You have no right. You're nothing but a- a-" 

His soulmate seems to flounder, words failing him for a moment, but Harry can see his eyes light up with malicious intent when he finally lands on one. 

Harry closes his eyes in one last, desperate, attempt to brace himself. 

"A freak." Yoongi spits out.

And Harry _breaks_.

\--- 

Yoongi feels like his skin is going to burst, rupturing with the force of his anger.

How dare he.

This man knows his colours. Colours from before he was an idol. As if that wasn’t alarming enough, his crazy stalker has somehow managed to insert himself into his little family, the family he’s made himself, his most precious people.

_How dare he._

To add insult to injury, his stalker is practically snuggling on the couch, playing house with _his_ family.

 _How fucking dare he._  

Yoongi let’s himself snarl at the other man, let’s his rage seep into his words, turns his words into daggers and hurls them at the other like the blows he wishes he were throwing. The other boy sits there on the couch with big wounded eyes that make him even angrier. How _dare_ he pretend to be the wounded party. Yoongi can feel the tidal wave of rage cresting within him, the darker parts of him wanting to _hurt_ this boy just like he so easily hurt him.

“You’re a freak,” he spits out, and watches the other boy freeze, emerald eyes blanking out, whole body going still. He feels the last remains of his control snap, the tidal wave smashing into him and lighting up every last nerve.

 _No, you don’t get to do that,_ he thinks to himself, baring his teeth in a snarl. _You don’t get to_ hide _from this you fucking coward._

He strides forward, ignoring the way the two boys on the floor scramble out of his way and grabs the imposters chin, forcing him to look up and meet his eyes instead of hiding like a coward 

Viridian green eyes stare blankly into his, empty and hollow, and it feels like he’s balancing on a precipice, staring down a long, dark corridor that stretches forever forward, with no end in site. And then abruptly, he’s bodily swept forward, caught by a strong unrelenting current that yanks him forward, despite his struggling and all his efforts to dig his heels in and _resist_ , and he has all of a second to desperately wonder if this is what riptide victims feel like, before he’s _falling_.

He falls for eternity and then he’s hitting the ground _hard._

He tries to roll to minimize the impact, to bleed off speed, cursing up a storm as he goes.

“What in the actual fuck—” Yoongi swears, but cuts himself off when he hears a whimper.

He looks around wildly.

He’s no longer in Namjoon and Jin’s lounge room.

He’s in a dark and cramped space, with what looks like shelves lining the walls. The roof is sharply slanted, like what you might find under stairs, and for once Yoongi is grateful for his height, as he is able to stand somewhat comfortably at the highest point of the ceiling if he leans forward.

The sound comes again, a wounded little cry that speaks of a grief and hurt so deep, it tugs at his heartstrings. Turning, he squints into the darkness and is just able to make out a small figure curled in a ball on top of what looks like a mattress.

A child?  _What in the actual fuck?_

Stooping low, Yoongi inches forward, clambering somewhat awkwardly over the assorted bits and pieces of furniture that litter the small space.

“Kid?” he calls, alerting the other to his presence. 

The child doesn’t respond, save for another whimper. 

Now that he’s closer, Yoongi is able to make out a wild mop of dark hair. 

“Kid?” he tries again, reaching out to gently shake the child’s shoulder.

Except his hand phases straight through the small form on the bed. 

Yoongi yelps and scrambles backwards.

He stares at his hand and then back at the quietly sobbing child in front of him.

What in the actual fuck?!

“It’s okay, soulmate,” the child whispers, breaking Yoongi out of his internal freak out. The child’s voice is wheezy and pained. Combined with the way they are curled around their middle, Yoongi is concerned enough to gather himself to inch forward again.

The child looks up and uncurls a little and Yoongi freezes. 

He’d recognize that shade of viridian green anywhere, his stalker is the only person he has ever met with that startling, almost otherworldly shade of green eyes. Now that he’s looking he sees more clues that make the child’s identity all the more apparent: a curly mop of pitch black hair, deeply tanned brown skin and that distinctive scar that had reminded Yoongi of lightening flashing across the night sky when he first saw it.

 _What in the actual fuck?_  

“It’s okay soulmate,” the child says again, lifting his hands up to his face.

Yoongi can just make out the burnt orange that paints the child’s small fingernails, the exact shade of orange he had accidentally bleached his hair when he was younger. He’d been aiming for platinum blonde but hadn’t read the instructions on the bottle properly. His mother had been furious but he had thought it looked pretty cool. There’s a sickening sense of dawning comprehension but Yoongi forces himself to listen, as the child continues talking, directing his words to his hand, to his fingernails, to his soulmate.

“It’s okay coz one day I’m gonna meet you and you’ll take me away and they wont ever be able to hurt me again.”

Yoongi stares at the bowed head in front of him.

The dichotomy present in the unwavering faith and hope of the statement contrasts sickeningly with the conditions Yoongi found the child in. He doesn’t have long to contemplate this though, as the world suddenly blurs and snaps back into sharp focus.

He’s in a kitchen. Pastel pink walls loom above him, with cute little retro cupboards and stainless steel surfaces. Black and white tiles lay under foot.

And he’s not alone. 

A woman in teetering heels towers over a boy cowering on the floor. The child is unmistakably his stalker, the unruly mop of curls crowning his head doing little to hide his scar or those eyes, but he’s older now, about eight or nine in age. 

“You thought you could hide this did you?” the woman’s voice is cultured, but clipped with barely restrained fury.

Yoongi inches closer and can see that she’s holding the boy by the wrist, his crimson nails on display. (The first, and only, time Yoongi dyed his hair a bold red that would match the boy's nails, the colour bled into everything, staining his pillows and leaving streaks of crimson on his shirts.)

“I wasn’t hiding Aunt Petunia, honest” the boy says, green eyes fearfully watching his aunt. 

“Don’t lie to me!” Petunia slaps the boy with her open palm.

“Hey!” Yoongi darts forward, hands outstretched to forcefully remove the child from the woman’s grasp. But just like before, he phases through the pair and he’s forced to watch the events unfold, unable to intercede.

“I will be speaking to your uncle about this,” Petunia continues, dragging the boy over to the kitchen counter top.

Yoongi follows the pair, feeling completely helpless but unwilling to leave the boy alone, even if he can’t possibly know he’s there.

“Please Aunt Petunia—” the boy begs, as the woman forces his hand flat.

“Stop talking,” the woman barks, picking up a fry pan. “Freaks should do as they’re told and do _not_ talk back to their betters.”

The woman raises the fry pan above her head and Yoongi realizes a split second too late what she intends to do.

“No!” he shouts, throwing himself forward even as he knows it’s futile. 

The woman brings the fry pan down on the child’s hand and Yoongi’s stomach lurches at the sickening crunch of delicate bone giving way under unforgiving steel. The world blurs around him abruptly, and this time when it reforms, he’s standing in what looks like a sitting room. His stomach rolls and he feels ill, even as he wildly looks around, but he’s alone. Voices sounding from out in the corridor have him tensing, and force him to re-evaluate his status of being alone.

“Get in there boy!”

A small figure is thrown bodily into the room. It’s the same child again, this time about 4 or 5, hair as unruly as ever. The boy hits the floor hard, bouncing against the wooden floorboards once, twice, before going still. 

Yoongi darts across to the boy’s side, mind replaying the moment his aunt brought the fry pan down on his tiny hand over and over again. He has to swallow hard as he crouches down next to the boy. Yoongi can’t physically touch the child, he knows that, doesn't really understand the why or the how, but he's also never believed in lying to himself, nor in repeating the same mistakes over and over again all the while praying for a different result.

He can't touch the boy, that's clear.

But he can use his other senses to ascertain the level of damage that has been inflicted upon him. He lets his eyes scan over the worryingly still body. The child is breathing unevenly, face screwed up in pain, green eyes dazed. Yoongi wants to drag him onto his lap and never let him go, but is forced to watch as the child struggles to sit up, completely useless and unable to help. It burns, the inescapable feeling of failure, of helplessness, sitting low in his gut but rising like the sea, threatening to swallow him whole.

Loud footsteps draw his attention back to the doorway, through which an obscenely large man is waddling. Yoongi watches with trepidation as the man stomps over to the child.

“Get up you freak!” the man snarls, lashing out with a foot and catching the boy in the side. The boy crumples back to the ground with a whimper.

"Leave him alone you disgusting piece of lard!" Yoongi snarls, hands clenched into fists by his side.

The other man doesn't react, except to move closer to the boy, and Yoongi feels his eyes burn with tears of frustration and anger at his own impotence.

“I said get up, you good for nothing freak!” the man kicks the boy again, sending him sprawling.

Yoongi has never wanted to kill someone as badly as he does in that moment, kneeling next to the boy, this boy who looks like the man who claimed to be his soulmate. He bares his teeth at the fat man, crouching protectively over the boy on the ground, knowing full well it’s useless as neither boy nor man are able to see him, but unable to stand by and do nothing.

The boy struggles to his feet, hands cradling his stomach, listing slightly to one side. The man grabs the boy by the wrist and roughly yanks him forward, making the child yelp in shocked pain.

“What is this boy?” the man demands, bushy moustache twitching spastically as he grabs the boy by the wrist.

“My h-hand Uncle Vernon,” the boy stutters, dangling somewhat awkwardly from his uncle’s grip. 

"Don’t get smart with me freak,” Vernon snarls, shaking the boy hard enough that his teeth clack together violently and his head wobbles dangerously.

Yoongi’s blunt nails bite into the delicate skin of his palms. If he looks down, he knows his knuckles will have turned white and bloodless from the sheer pressure. But he doesn't check on the state of his hands, can't look away from the scene unfolding in front of him.

“My n-nails sir?” the boy manages to gasp, flexing his hands slightly and drawing Yoongi’s attention to the flamingo pink coating the boy’s nails. “’s my soulmate.”

(Yoongi is forcefully reminded of the time he used four bottles of pink hair dye to achieve a soft, cotton candy colour, but ended up with a darker, more vibrant shade of pink that looks suspiciously like a direct match with the colour currently decorating the child’s hand.)

“Freaks don’t have soulmates!” Vernon bellows, spittle flying from his lips. “What did you do to your nails boy!”

“T-they changed over night s-sir, just like you t-told Dudley his would when his soulmate dyed his h-hair,” the boy stutters through his explanation, face ashen and pinched with pain.

Vernon stares at the boy for a long moment and then at his pink nails, rage slowly subsiding. A malicious, almost manic, glint lights his beady black eyes.

“Well what do you know,” he chuckles, throwing the boy to the ground. “Even freaks have soulmates. And judging by the pink, they’re just as freaky as you.”

Yoongi remembers flinging the word 'freak’ at the grown up version of this little boy and wants to be sick.

“You will show your nails to your aunt or myself every morning for inspection. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Uncle Vernon,” the boy whispers, huddled on the floor where he’d fallen.

“Good,” Vernon declares, stomping over and looming over the boy. “Oh and freak?" 

Vernon raises his foot, preparing to bring it down on the boy and Yoongi forgets how to breath, forgets that he can’t interact with these people, forgets everything as he flings himself across the room and tries to tackle the other man away from the little boy. He phases right through the larger man and falls to the floor in time to hear the chilling sound of bone snapping and the pain filled howl of a child in unspeakable agony fill the air.

The now familiar sensation of the world blurring out of focus grips him, but does little to stop the angry, frustrated tears borne of fear and helplessness that are streaming down his face. He has never felt this helpless in all his life, and he hates it 

The world snaps back into focus, and Yoongi is greeted by yelling.

“I will not have this unnatural- this _freakishness_! In MY house! Even if I have to rid you of it myself!”

Yoongi struggles to his feet and takes in the scene in front of him. 

The boy looks like he’s in his early teens now and is huddled on the floor, curled protectively around his stomach. Yoongi makes his way over and crouches down next to him, needing to be close, to make sure he’s okay. This close, Yoongi can make out the darkening purple bruise that is flowering rapidly across the boy’s cheek and hisses in sympathy. That would have hurt. Looking closer, Yoongi spots an oddly shaped scar in the cradle of the boy’s elbow, circular like something round had stabbed the boy and wants to rage at the injustice of the world. His gaze flits across the multi-coloured bruises that travel the length of the boy’s arms and does a double take when he gets to the boys hands.

_Neon purple?_

One of the few colours he had never tried himself, but he had seen on Hoseok during their training days.

Footsteps draw his attention back to Vernon, who is crossing back over to the boy’s side, a pair of pliers in his hand.

“Give me your hand freak,” Vernon demands. 

The teen stares at his uncle with resigned, yet still some how defiant, eyes and doesn’t move. Yoongi knows what is coming but still flinches when the other man brutally kicks the boy in the side, sending him sprawling out of his protective curl. Faster than Yoongi thought he could move, Vernon grabs the boy by the wrist and yanks him over to a chair. There, the larger man sits with a heavy thump, chair creaking dangerously under him, and pulls the teen to stand by his side.

“I want you to think about your precious soulmate, boy,” Vernon tells the boy conversationally as he sets the pliers to one of the teen’s nails. “I want you to know that this is what happens to freaks and their freaky soulmates.”

The world blurs around Yoongi and he is ashamed of how relieved he feels in being spared the horror of watching that particular scene unfold. Of being present but unable to stop it from occurring. Of watching the boy stand perfectly still, not once struggling against his uncle’s hold, resigned in a way that breaks Yoongi’s heart and makes him want to rage and punch something. 

Preferably an obese man named Vernon.

But Yoongi isn’t going to be picky right now. 

He would give anything to be corporal again.

The world reforms again with a sickening lurch, and suddenly Yoongi is in a small cramped bedroom, a wardrobe on one wall, a large empty birdcage by the window and a single bed against the far wall.

The bed is occupied, a figure sprawled on their stomach, face buried in the pillow, black hair a tangled mess.

It’s the boy.

Yoongi wonders if he can apply that term now, given how much older he looks. He looks more like the man he had confronted in Namjoon's lounge room. Without his direct permission, his feet are already moving him forward, towards the bed. The first thing he notices is the thick welts, red and raw, some a little bloody in places. They cover the boy’s too thin back. He wants to be sick when he spies a distinctly shaped bruise in the mess, the form of a belt buckle unmistakable, and realizes what he’s looking at. Biting his lip, Yoongi hovers at the edge of the bed, blinking back tears when he takes in the quivering shoulders, the hitching sobs that aren’t quite muffled by the pillow. A glance down reveals arms clenched by heaving sides, and Yoongi is no longer surprised when he spots nails painted a strikingly dark navy that fades incrementally into a sky blue, a colour combination he remembers sporting during the bands debut.

The world blurs in a way that has rapidly become familiar and he has time to brace himself before he is being whipped through a monochrome blur. He comes to a jarring halt and colours snap back into focus. For the first time since this nightmare has begun, he is outside. It looks like it’s blisteringly cold, a flurry of tiny snowflakes fall all around him, painting the scenery white. Yet Yoongi remains as untouchable to the elements as he is to the people in this reality.

The rattling of a chain has him whirling around instinctively.

The sight that greets him makes him want to throw up, his stomach violently rebelling when he spies the boy, collared and chained to what looks like a metal fence. The boy is younger again, maybe 9 or 10, on the cusp of adolescence, but it’s unmistakably him. The unruly mop of hair has been somewhat tamed by the elements; damp, the curls have been flattened out into thick strands that clump and cling to the boy’s forehead and hide his scar.

But Yoongi would recognize those bright viridian eyes anywhere.

The boy is curled in on himself, trying desperately to conserve body heat against the frigid temperature. Bruises, both old and new, litter the boy’s exposed skin, painting a sorry tale of violence and suffering. Yoongi falls to his knees in the slush next to him and wishes, not for the first time, that he could touch the boy, to draw him close and share his body heat.

“I don’t blame you soulmate,” the boy says through chattering teeth, staring forlornly down at his silver and pink nails.

And as Yoongi follows his line of sight, he feels like he’s been sucker punched. For the silver tipped with pink is an identical match to the hair he wore for three days back in high school, the result of a bet gone wrong.

He can no longer deny the facts.

This boy is his soulmate.

His soulmate who tried to tell him as much when they met only for Yoongi to greet him with rejection and stinging criticisms.

His soulmate who has been abused and tortured by his own relatives for Yoongi’s choices. 

“I wonder what you’re like,” the boy continues, tracing the bed of his pinkie finger reverently, unaware that his soulmate is right there and having an existential crisis. “I bet you’re as wonderful as your colours.”

“I’m really not kiddo,” Yoongi croaks, still staring at his soulmate’s fingernails.

The undeniable proof of how badly he’s fucked up. 

“I love your colours,” the boy confines, dropping his hands back into his lap and curling up even tighter as a brisk wind cuts through the small backyard. “Even if I wish sometimes you’d choose more natural hues. The punishments are less painful when you do that."

Yoongi closes his eyes, the damning statement hitting with all the force of a physical blow and sending him reeling. The world tilts alarmingly, seemingly dissolving before shattering completely, and once again Yoongi is falling.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly thank you to all of you who commented - Yukarina, LovelyLivelyLady, bralalaland and Tipu (I hope your exam prep is going well buddy!) y'all are my inspiration, thank you! 
> 
> Secondly, thank you to everyone who left kudos, y'all are beautiful <3
> 
> Thirdly, tags have been updated, so make sure you read those, stay safe and proceed with caution :)

Jin is paralysed, standing in the doorway of his apartment, watching as Yoongi, his bandmate, screams at Harry.

Spews vitriol at  _Harry._  

Harry with the world weary, bruised soul that peaks out from behind bright green eyes. Who leaps at sudden noises and only accepts touch from a select few people. Who has strange scars and had never been to the movies before. Harry who wears oversized sweaters and whose hair is always falling in his eyes. Who’s face is much too young for the emotions that often flit across it. Who genuinely likes helping people and hates sitting still.

Yoongi had  _screamed_ at him. 

And then it was revealed that Yoongi was Harry’s soulmate. The soulmate who had rejected Harry that very same day, was  _their_ Yoongi. Their grumpy little songwriter who drinks caffeine like it’s oxygen, the master of the gummy smile, a stoic yet patient teacher.

Was Harry’s  _soulmate_. 

~~And where did that leave _Hoseok_?~~

“You’re nothing but a freak!” Yoongi spits, and Jin is wrenched out of the shock that had frozen him where he stood. 

The shock that had silenced his tongue and rendered him a powerless bystander as Yoongi had  _screamed_ at  _Harry_.

“Yoongi-yah! That’s enough!” Jin shouts, even as the rapper grabs Harry by the chin. “Yoongi!”

Jin isn’t sure what happens next but Yoongi freezes, going unnaturally still, rage bleeding away and leaving his face disturbingly blank. Harry is in a similar state, eyes glazed and dull, it makes Jin’s skin crawl to see the pair so still.

“Hyungie?” the sound of Jungkook, his baby, sounding so small makes Jin snap to attention.

Jungkook is perched somewhat precariously on the couch, half on and half off the piece of furniture, movement clearly aborted mid-way. Whether he had intended to move towards or away from the conflict is unclear, but the lost look on his face has Jin moving on autopilot. He crosses the room in three quick strides to wrap the younger boy into a hug. 

“It’s okay Kookie,” he soothes, turning slightly to block the younger boy’s vision of the eerily still pair in front of them. Jin throws a desperate look at Namjoon, who bites his lip and moves forward.

“Yoongi-yah?” Namjoon calls, reaching out to place a hand on the rapper’s shoulder, shaking him gently to get his attention.

But there’s no response. Neither Harry nor Yoongi move, both stock-still, as immovable as an oak tree refusing to bend in the wind. 

“Joon-ah, why isn’t he responding?” Hoseok anxiously pads forward, eyes locked on Yoongi’s prone form. 

“I don’t know Hope,” Namjoon admits, and Jin has never seen his soulmate look so unsure of himself.

“Hyungie went all still and creepy silent when he made eye contact with Harry-ah,” Jimin says into the silence, drawing all attention to the two boys still on the floor.

“So breaking eye contact should theoretically stop what ever this is?” Taehyung says, eyeing the pair somewhat doubtfully.

“One way to find out,” Namjoon reaches out to cover Yoongi’s eyes. 

Yoongi does nothing, doesn’t slap the hand blocking his vision away, doesn’t shout, doesn’t react in any way other than to stare blankly ahead. 

“Maybe we need to cover Harry-ah’s eyes?” Jimin suggests, leaping up to do just that.

Again, there is no change, no minute flinch, no flicker of the eyes and no acknowledgement of the movement or sudden descent into darkness. Harry’s facial expression remains slack, wiped clean of emotion. 

Jin can literally see the moment Hoseok snaps.

“Hoseok-ah!” he calls, reaching out a hand but knowing it’s already too late.

“Give me back my partner!” Hoseok shouts, stepping forward and punching Harry in the face. 

The effects are immediate. 

\--- 

Memories surge like waves in a storm, thundering against his barriers and threatening to drown Harry under their weight.

 _Freak_.

His relatives’ shouted words echo in his mindscape, faces contorted in rage. Each memory is practically soaked in indigo,  _pain his longest and oldest companion_ , droplets of the colour dripping onto the floor of his mindscape.

 _Freak_.

In his minds eye, he can see his soulmate’s face, his disgusted sneer seared into his memory with awful clarity. His childhood memories blur and suddenly his soulmate is right, snarling at him in concert with his relatives. A single drop of the darkest obsidian plinks into the gathering puddle of emotion, and Harry watches with an odd sense of detachment as it spreads, staining the pool with tendrils of ink.

_Freak._

The word that had haunted him his whole slams into his defences, battering at them with every repetition by his soulmate’s visage. The word itself seems heavier, as if a weight had been affixed to the letters that made up the single syllable world, and it chips away at him slowly. His mindscape is bleeding black, his barriers unable to hold against the onslaught.

_Freak!_

Until this moment, he had managed to distance himself from the awful accusations of his family, had been able to hold onto the knowledge that his soulmate would be different, that his soulmate would accept and love him. The knowledge had become a talisman, a security blanket against all the bad (and there was a lot of that – Harry’s life often seems like one long drive through Bad with little detours into Worse). The thought of his soulmate waiting for him had been a single patch of light banishing the darkness, his _very reason_ for coming back.

He’d had a choice after Voldemort fired that curse: come back or move on.

Standing there in that eerie white place, the shade of his once mentor smiling genially down at him, he’d nearly picked differently. He’d nearly boarded that train towards the next great adventure. Hermione and Ron would have been devastated, but Harry had known that eventually, the pair would have moved on with their lives, they would have helped each other heal, maybe even had a bunch of babies all named after him in fond remembrance. He’d been so  _tired_ , so sick of fighting and struggling, day after wretched day. Tired of trying his best and having the world turn its back on him again and again and again. He’d been so ready to  _finally_  meet his parents, to hug his mother close, to see if his dad’s hair really was as unruly as his own. He wanted to go with a desperate ferocity, wanted to greet all his loved ones with open arms, wanted to see _Sirius_ again.

He’d been so close to boarding that train.

But in the end, he couldn’t do it.

He’d looked down, seen his nails and known. He couldn’t be the one to deprive his soulmate, the other half of his soul, a chance at happiness. He just couldn’t. He had refused to be the cause of a broken bond, of soul discord, not while there was still even the smallest sliver of a chance he could live. And now, now he knew he’d made the wrong choice. He’d been kidding himself when he thought he could make his soulmate happy. He couldn’t believe he’d deluded himself into thinking that  _he_  would be someone’s one chance at happiness. He should have known better. His family had been right all along.

He was a freak and freaks don’t get soulmates.

Pain explodes across his cheek, snapping him back to reality, sending him reeling. One hand comes up to cradle his face, while the other instinctively flies up to shield his face. His cheek is warm and tender to the touch, experience tells him that he’ll have an impressive bruise come morning. The sound of someone sobbing, the sound agonized, breath hitching painfully on every inhale as the person panics, has Harry looking up, pain completely forgotten.

Yoongi is doubled over on the floor, looking absolutely wretched as he shakes and falls apart in the arms of the man from earlier. Namjoon stands behind them, a silent shadow and pillar of support, his own soulmate a couple feet away cradling Jungkook close, both looking distraught and close to tears. Jimin and Taehyung have planted themselves between the pair on the floor and Harry, aiming heated glares in his direction.

All of this registers in the infinitesimal space that lingers between two separate heartbeats.

And he knows, with a sinking sense of clarity.

Whatever bond he had formed with these boys, no matter how much he considered them dear friends, family even, this is unforgiveable in their eyes.

He's over stayed his welcome.

Harry closes his eyes for one moment, bowing his head in defeat. 

One moment. 

That's all he allows himself.

And then he's gone, the quiet snick of the front door latching behind him signifying his departure.

\--- 

Hoseok is worried.

No, he’s beyond worried.

The only time Hoseok has seen Yoongi this distraught was during the bands' War of Hormone Era. One of their makeup artists had removed the rapper’s nail blackout prior to the band going on stage. The old paint had been badly chipped (Yoongi had a terrible tendency to gnaw on his nails when he was composing or anxious) and had needed a fresh coat. But when the coordi noona had removed the flimsy pieces of foil and cotton buds drenched in acetone, everyone had been shocked to see the colour on Yoongi’s nails, once so vibrant and clear, slowly draining away, leaving horribly blank nails in their place. Yoongi had collapsed and the band had had to do their set without the rapper.

(Hoseok has never seen Yoongi without the blackout since.)

Hoseok had thought that that was the worst day of his life. Yoongi had been inconsolable and after that night, his smiles never quite reached his eyes, the light snuffed out with the death of his soulmate. He had become a mere shadow of himself, drifting through the motions of life like a ghost, never really completely present. It had taken a long time to peel back the rapper’s defences and breathe life back into him.

But this.

This is so much worse.

This is panic and terror and emotional pain so intense Yoongi is practically hyperventilating in his arms. 

“You’re okay Yoon,” Hoseok says, again and again, a litany, prayer and plea all rolled into one. “It’s alright, I’ve got you. You’re okay, just breathe with me babe. I’ve got you, just breathe.”

Hoseok has his partner wrapped in a protective embrace, one arm wrapped around his waist, holding him close, the other cradling the back of his head. Yoongi shudders and chokes in his arms, tears leaving a spreading patch of warmth at his collarbone.

“I’ve got you Yoon,” Hoseok cards a hand through the other’s hair in what he hopes is a comforting manner. He can feel the other boy’s lips on his neck, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s mouthing something, trying to force words out past the sobs that wrack his slight frame. Hoseok pulls back immediately so he can see the tearstained face. 

“What is it Yoon?” he asks, reaching out a hand to push Yoongi’s hair out his eyes.

"The b-boy," Yoongi gasps, grasping Hoseok’s shirt with his fist, as if to anchor himself. 

 _He’s worried the boy is still here,_ Hoseok realizes, arms tightening protectively around the smaller rapper. Glancing up, he finds Namjoon standing nearby. Hoseok tilts his head in a silent query and the other shakes his head. Hoseok feels a flash of relief; the boy is no longer here. Yoongi is safe.

"Shh, you're okay Yoon," Hoseok croons, focusing back on his partner. "He's gone, I'll never let him near you again. You're safe." 

Yoongi loses what little colour he had and immediately starts struggling to sit up.

"Woah!" Hoseok yelps, grabbing the other man by the shoulders and looping an arm around his waist to stop him from lurching headfirst into the floorboards.

Hoseok can feel the way Yoongi’s sides  _heave_ , body struggling to get air, can hear the way the rapper’s breathing hitches painfully in his throat, short staccato bursts that whistle on the way out and he knows that his partner needs to calm down. 

"Yoon! It's okay babe, you're okay!" Hoseok tries to soothe, but Yoongi fights him, bucking in his grip.

"Need to make it right, need to fix it!" Yoongi is babbling, wriggling and hitting out in desperation. 

Hoseok presses his lips together on the sob that wants to break free, even as he tightens his grip on the struggling man.

"Shh Yoon," he whispers as soon as he can trust his voice not to break. "It's okay, you're okay."

He can feel the rapper’s struggles weakening and breathes out a shaky sigh of relief, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his partner’s head.

"Hobi, leave go," Yoongi whimpers, making a half-hearted attempt to escape. "I need to fix this."

"Suga, babe, what are you talking about?" Hoseok keeps his eyes trained on Yoongi's face, desperate for a clue, a sign to help him figure out what’s going through the rapper’s mind. That's when he sees Yoongi's eyes dart to his hands. He's still draped protectively over the other man and so feels he the very moment Yoongi freezes, going statue still.

"Hobi," he croaks. "Your nails."

“Yoon?” Hoseok can feel his brow wrinkle in confusion as he glances down at his hands. 

No. 

It can’t be.

Hoseok stares in horror at his hand.

There’s suddenly a lack of oxygen in his lungs. He feels like he’s taken a blow to the stomach, like he’s been winded, like all the air in the room has been replaced with carbon dioxide and he’s slowly suffocating. He hears someone gasp, feels bodies crowding in close to his sides, but can’t take his eyes off his nails. Obsidian black rolls across the planes of his nails, chased by a deep purple, the colour of dark, plum wine. Flashes of indigo spark and flicker through the other colours, like lightening licking across the sky. And most damning of all, the band of gold that twinkles merrily, thrown into sharp contrast by the dark emotions of his soulmate.

His soulmate. 

“He’s your soulmate too,” Yoongi’s rasping voice echoes his thoughts, and has Hoseok snapping to attention.

“Suga, what do you mean?”

“He was telling the truth,” Yoongi closes his eyes, expression pained. “About my colours. I saw it. I saw my colours, but I also saw yours too. It didn’t make sense but now it’s obvious – he must be yours too.” 

A small part of him is gibbering at him, _saw, what does he mean saw?_ But the rest of him is preoccupied, because he knows Yoongi is telling the truth, his partner’s words sink into him and resonate against the soft underside of his heart and Hoseok _knows_. 

Yoongi is telling the truth.

He feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been upended over him and the breathless feeling is back. He wants to scream, wants to shout at Yoongi and shake him until he takes it back because this can’t be happening.

“Oh god,” Yoongi gasps, eyes snapping open.

“Yoongi, what’s wrong?” Hoseok has never been happier to have Namjoon take charge.

He’s reeling. 

 _This can’t be happening,_ a dazed and horrified plea is stuck on loop inside his head, and he can’t get the look of Harry, _green eyes suddenly flaring to life, shock and hurt swirling in their depths,_ out of his mind. At the time he had felt vindicated, had thought it was _good_ that Harry was in pain, the petty part of him feeling it justified – you hurt Yoongi, I’ll hurt you a thousand times worse.

Now, now he just feels sick.

“That makes it worse,” Yoongi keens, tears making their way silently down his pale cheeks. “That makes it so much worse.”

“Makes what worse Yoongi-yah?” Namjoon keeps his voice gentle, coaxing the answers from their distraught band mate. 

“Every time we changed our hair colour. And we did, so many times. Oh god, I think I’m going to be sick.” 

And truly, he looks like he will.

Hoseok suddenly doesn’t want to know what it is that his partner is struggling to tell them. He wants to block his ears against the torrent of words. Wants to hide away in his bedroom like a child and forget this day ever happened.

“Every time we changed our hair colour,” Yoongi says again, his horror practically tangible. “His family abused him. Every time. Punished him for our hair colour choices. He was just a child, practically a babe and they—”

Yoongi gags, words cutting off as he curls into himself.

Hoseok knows he should comfort him, do something to ease his distress but he can’t. He's paralysed, frozen, unable to move.

_His family abused him … punished him for our choices._

The knuckles of his right hand pulse angrily, matching the chaotic swirl of his thoughts. Hoseok knows if he looks down he will find bruised and split skin, proof of his crime. 

He punched his soulmate.

Not just his soulmate, a survivor of abuse.

He’s broken his soulmate’s trust before he even got to know him.

“What have I done?” Hoseok whispers, glancing up at his band mates. They look as shaken and as lost as he feels and he knows, none of them know the answer. 

In his lap, Yoongi folds into his side and cries.

\---

Harry shuts the door behind him, the resounding snick of the lock sliding into place making his breath catch in his throat. He does nothing to stop the tears that blur his vision, just stares blankly at the door separating him from his soulmate and friends, a painful lump building in his throat. 

“So that’s that,” he whispers hoarsely, closing his eyes against the bolt of pain that slams into his chest. “Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again BTS.”

Focusing through the rising wave of sorrow and despair, Harry visualizes where he wants to be and spins on his heel. With a whisper of displaced air, he’s enveloped in darkness, pressure squeezing in on all sides, tight, tighter, tightest, before abruptly relenting. He glances up and finds himself surrounded by floor to ceiling bookshelves, all crammed to the brim with books, an achingly familiar sight. A deep inhale confirms where he is, nowhere else carries the same blend of old books, sunshine and freshly ground coffee undercut by the bitter scent of floo powder.

He’s made it back to the apartment. 

Harry lifts a hand,  _shaking and trembling in a way that is indicative of shock,_ to push his flyaway curls back, but freezes, hand halfway to his head, gaze caught and trapped by the sight his nails.

The gold band decorating the nail beds winks up at him, offset by swirling shades of green and poisonous yellow, flares of magenta spiking through sporadically.

 _His soulmate._  

The storm of emotion that had been brewing since his first encounter with his soulmate rumbles, the blended cocktail of grief, heartbreak and sorrow that he had steadily pushed away and shored up behind mental barriers finally cresting and breaking free. Harry collapses, legs unable to hold him under the sheer weight of his emotions. He rolls over, burying his face into the lush thick carpet and _howls_ , pouring all his loss, pain, confusion and misery into the cry, until his voice breaks and his vocal chords falter under the strain. And then, with his throat burning from the abuse, he finally gives in to the urge to cry. It’s ugly and painful and steals the breath from him, leaving him gasping, chest tight and screaming for air, but he doesn’t care, can’t care, can’t _think_ under the suffocating weight of his sorrow. He has no idea how long he lies there, face down in the carpet, completely and utterly  _consumed_ by his heartbreak.

It takes time but he slowly becomes aware of a warm weight on his back, of a slim hand rubbing circles into the space between his shoulder blades. Of the presence next to him, the warmth pressed against his side. Of the steady stream of words that flow over him, cadence low and soothing and familiar. It’s longer still before he can focus, before he can scrape together enough energy to force the words to make sense. 

“— you’re in our lounge room, come back to me Harry. You’re safe. Occlude Harry, you need to raise your shields.”

“’mione,” he manages to gasp between heaves, his body convulsing under her palm.

“Oh thank Merlin,” the hand on his back falters momentarily in its soothing circles, before picking up again. “Harry sweetie, you need to raise your shields. Can you do that for me?”

“Can’t,” he whines, grasping desperately at the plush carpet beneath him.

“Shh,” his sister soothes, and suddenly there’s a hand in his hair, carding through the strands in long, even strokes. “You can Harry, you just need to focus.”

“Hurts,” he whimpers, unwilling to enter his mind-space right now. 

He never wants to face the tidal wave of emotion that will surely drown him, drag him under the churning waves should he dare enter. It’s safer out here, even if it hurts. _Only once had his aunt tried to drown him when he was younger, but that had been enough for him. He’d take the belt over the terror that had nipped at his chest and gripped his lungs as the water enveloped him, pushed at him from all sides, as he slowly suffocated._

“I know Harry,” Hermione’s voice sounds odd, strained almost, but Harry can’t focus long enough to puzzle out why. “But your shields will help.  _Please_  Harry.”

And Harry can’t deny Hermione, not when she asks in that tone.

He faced death for her once, for the good of his friends and family, for the good of those under his command. He can do it again.

Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes and focuses on his mindscape. 

It’s as bad as he knew it would be.

Swirls of deep violet intermingle with a muddy brown and spikes of indigo, all coalescing into a thick layer of black that oozes from every surface. Memories fly thick and fast and he catches glimpses of his soulmates snarl, his Uncle’s beady eyes, a pair of red eyes, the weight of a hundred eyes judging his every move. Harry knows he has to _move_ , has to act before he drowns under the onslaught but it’s so _hard_. 

 _Please Harry,_ his sister begs him.

Gritting his teeth, Harry focuses. Facing his memories head on, he grasps at the tattered remains of his mental shields, and, with a monumental effort, heaves them into place. 

\---

“Hyungie!” the gasp has everyone turning to stare at the youngest, who gestures wildly when he realizes he has everyone’s attention.

“Hyungie your nails!” Jungkook stares in horror at Hoseok’s hands.

Gasps and cries of his name fill the room, as the rest of the band follow the maknae's gaze.

Dread pools on his stomach.

No.

The only reason the others would react like that is if something happened to his nails, his colours, his bond. He closes his eyes against the horrifying knowledge. He doesn’t want to look at his nails; if he doesn’t look it won’t be real. If he doesn’t look, he won’t have to accept the insurmountable future stretching out in front of him. He won’t have to acknowledge that he caused this, crushed his soulmate so thoroughly — 

“Seok-ah...” his partner’s voice breaks him out of his spiralling self flagellation, the disbelief and the tiniest thread of fear clear as a tolling bell to Hoseok.

And suddenly he needs to know.

 _Like ripping off a bandaid,_ he tells himself somewhat desperately. Taking a deep breath, Hoseok forces himself to look.

He stares.

And then stares some more.

“What?” he breathes, staring down at his nails in confusion.

Where once a riot of colours flowed across his nails, only a murky grey, the dark grey of thunderclouds threatening to rain, remain. As he watches, occasional flashes of colour spark, peaking through the grey in jagged streaks of emotion, before fading into nothing just as quickly.

He’s never heard of this happening before, has no idea what this means.

But he knows who might.

“Joon-ah,” Hoseok looks up desperately, biting his lip when he meets Namjoon’s concerned gaze.

Yoongi twists in his lap at the sound of his voice. Whatever he reads on Hoseok’s face has him twining closer, burrowing into his side as if he can shelter him from the world. Hoseok presses his trembling lips together and clings to his partner, watching with trepidation as Namjoon makes his way over to the pair. The others shuffle over as Namjoon grasps one of his hands gently and inspects his nails. Jin steps up behind him, a solid line of warmth and comfort at his back, arms draping around Hoseok and the trembling mint haired boy in his lap. Jungkook sticks close to Jin, crowding in next to him and plastering himself along Hoseok’s side, hands clutching at his shoulders as if desperate to reassure himself that he’s there and still in one piece. Taehyung and Jimin tuck themselves in, just as close as the others, bracketing the little group tightly between them, as they all wait for Namjoon’s conclusion.

“I’ve never seen anything like this Hope,” Namjoon finally confesses, releasing his arm from his grip. “But you’re definitely still bonded. It’s almost like Harry is cloaking his emotions somehow, but from my readings that’s impossible.”

Jimin asks a question, but Hoseok has stopped paying attention. He feels light headed, eyes greedily staring at the intact gold band, the smattering of colours soothing despite the darker emotions they reflect.

“He’s still alive,” he breathes, tightening his hold on Yoongi in his lap.

The only sign the other has heard him is the increase in pressure, arms cinching that much tighter and Hoseok exhales, practically melting into the embrace. The others continue discussing his nails over his head, but Hoseok is content to cradle Yoongi and keep one eye on his nails.

Because he knows now that he has a chance to fix this. And he will. He wont let himself think in anything else but absolutes. 

He  _will_ fix this.

\---

His mental shields snap into place with a faint hum and instantly, Harry can feel the difference. The onslaught of emotion cuts off, leaving him empty, hollowed out. He slumps over, letting the warm liquid trickling down his cheeks seep into the carpet beneath him. 

“Oh Harry,” he hears, and suddenly he’s being enveloped in warmth, tucked into a firm embrace.

Harry buries his face in the space between Hermione’s shoulder and neck, inhaling the comforting scent of books and cinnamon that clings to his oldest and truest friend. She shushes him softly, resting her check against his head, crooning soothing nonsense in his ear. He doesn’t  _feel_  sad, his shields enforced to the point where he only feels the faintest echoes of emotion, but he can’t seem to stop the tears dripping down his face. 

“I really thought he would love me,” Harry whispers, closing his eyes to block out the world.

“Who Harry?” soothing hands are in his hair, brushing back his bangs from his forehead.

“My soulmate,” he puffs out a self-depreciating laugh. “I foolishly thought that my  _soulmate_  would be able to love a  _freak_  like me. But I was kidding myself.”

Harry curls up as much as he can, struck by a fierce desire to be in bed, tucked away under the covers, where he could sleep the day away and he could forget it ever happened.

“Harry look at me,” Hermione tugs gently on his hair, forcing him to pull back slightly and meet her gaze head on.

“Harry, you are  _not_ a freak,” Her words are firm, and there’s a steely glint in her eyes that tells him that she’s not going to let this go. “You’re my best friend, and more than that, you’re my brother and I adore you. If your soulmate can’t acknowledge how wonderful you are, that’s his bad luck, but there is  _nothing_  wrong with you." 

Harry yearns to believe her, but knows better by now.

A lifetime of listening to his relatives expounding his freakishness, his friends turning their backs on him when he needed them the most and now this, his soulmate’s harsh words – all of it paints a painfully clear picture.

“Harry?” he looks back up at the concerned call of his name.

A quick glance at the creased forehead, the pinched brows and the pursed lips tells him that it wasn’t the first call of his name, tells him that he got lost in his thoughts again.

“Sorry ‘Mione, got lost in my thoughts,” he sighs, tucking his head back into her neck. “It’s been a long day Mione. The longest of days.”

There is a pause, before the arms wound tight around him squeeze gently.

“Okay Harry,” his sister says, and it should be a relief but he knows that his sister won’t have given up so easily, she’s never given up that easy, even when he wished she would. They would be revisiting this conversation some time in the not too distant future. He doesn’t feel anything but exhausted at the thought, so he pushes it away, crushing it behind his mental shields.

“Come on then little brother,” Hermione urges him, gently pulling him up right. “Up we go. You need somewhere comfortable to rest, and the floor does not match that description, not by a long shot." 

Standing up is harder than it should be – he’s dizzy and lightheaded, a sudden rush of vertigo blacks out his vision and forces him to cling to Hermione in order to remain upright.  _Breakdowns are exhausting business, who knew_ , he thinks somewhat darkly, leaning further into his sister’s hold.

“Come on Harry,” Hermione guides him into the master bedroom and helps him clamber in. She pulls the blankets up to tuck him in as he curls into the pillows.

“Rest Harry, everything will look brighter in the morning,” she runs a hand through his hair and he sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back into the pillows. 

He suspects this may be one of the rare instances of when Hermione is wrong, but he holds his tongue, not willing to argue any more. Instead, he burrows further into the mountain of blankets, letting the exhaustion clinging to his limbs drag him under. 

\---

Hermione sits on the edge of her brother’s bed and watches him curl into a forlorn bundle of blankets and linen, leaving just the top of his head uncovered. Inwardly she seethes, utterly furious, her magik bristling just under her skin. Outwardly, she reaches out to stroke hair back from a scarred forehead. A quick check shows that he’s fallen into an exhausted slumber, probably the second his head hit the pillow – he’s always been like this, able to sleep anywhere, out like a light the minute he was comfortable.

“You can’t catch a break can you Harry?” she laments, smoothing the blankets out over his form.

Leaning forward she drops a kiss over the scarred forehead, before pulling back.

A quick flick of her wand has a Monitoring Charm humming to life – she’ll know the second that he wakes. A moment of thought has her layering a modified Silencing Charm over the top, creating a bubble of silence around the bed that will only be able to be penetrated by the most urgent of alarms. 

Once the charm hums to life and she’s satisfied Harry is settled, she calls forth her Patronus.

“Ron,” she says clearly, distinctly, curbing the rage that hums in her veins and makes her want to rush. “I need you to come home. Harry found his soulmate. It didn’t go well. I’m going to find out what happened and take care of the situation should it be necessary. Look after Harry, I’ll be home soon.”

Message complete, she flicks her wrist. Her silvery otter twirls once in place before bounding through the wall, in search of its recipient.

Pocketing her wand, Hermione strides out of the room, her mind _whirling_ as she plans her next course of action.

After all, it appears she has some boys to talk to.

\---

Later, when they are curled up on the couch together, legs entangled, Yoongi turns to him and says, “Seok-ah, we need to find him.”

A slow smile spread over Hoseok’s face, “Yoon, I thought you were never going to ask. Joon-ah,” he calls out, grabbing the attention of the entire room. 

“Hobi?” Namjoon acknowledges, titling his head in question.

“Permission to find our soulmate?” Hoseok says, brown eyes determined, expression set.

Instantly, there is pandemonium as the others bolt upright and demand that they’re allowed help. Taehyung and Jimin are babbling a mile a minute about finding Harry-ah and apologizing, shouting over the top of each other. Jungkook quietly adds his own request that they find “Harry-hyungie”, brown eyes doleful and beseeching, adding a plea all of their own. Jin sits up so fast from where he was sprawled across Namjoon’s lap, that he almost clips the other man’s chin, but doesn’t seem to register the near miss, merely staring at Namjoon hopefully.

“Please,” Yoongi says, when the others finally fall silent. 

Hoseok just waits, steady as a stone amidst the chaos, the hand clenching Yoongi’s the only sign of nerves he allows.

Namjoon looks at each member in turn, letting the silence linger for a heart stopping moment, before turning to Hoseok and Yoongi.

“Permission granted.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thank you to all those who commented - Karcee, my buddy Tipu (don't forget to take regular study breaks friend!), lalarose, valerie15b, IAOWHPD and Yukarina - y'all are the wind beneath my wings, my inspiration and all those other lovely song references ^.^ Also shout out to all those who left kudos, you're beautiful <3
> 
> I hope you enjoy the chapter!

By the front door, Hermione pauses, keen ears just catching the sound of footsteps approaching the front door.

 _Who could that be?_ she wonders, brow furrowing. 

Ron would have apparated straight into the apartment and as a general rule, they don’t get visitors, not Mundane ones anyway. Anyone who wanted to visit them would use the floo, portkey or apparate straight in, provided they were already keyed into the wards. She pads closer on silent feet, ears pricked and head tilted forward. 

_Too many footsteps for a single person, maybe a group of people?_

Her questions are answered when a muffled voice calls from the other side of the door: 

“Harry-ah? Harry-ah please, can we come in? We’re sorry.”                  

Hermione almost smirks when she realizes she won't have to go hunting after all. 

Her prey has come right to her.

Throwing the door open, she lets the wooden frame crash into the solid doorstop with a jarringly loud _bang!_ It’s satisfying watching the group at the door jump in fright and she doesn’t bother hiding the vindictive part of her that relishes in their shock.

Seven, she counts, honey brown eyes flickering over the group.

The lioness that usually lies dormant, sleeping in the back of mind, _only ever called to the fore when she’s startled by loud noises, cackling laughter or flashes of traffic coloured light_ , roars awake. She has to ball her hands closed against the claws that are itching to extend and she knows if she were in her animagus form, her tail would be slowly twitching back and forth, swinging in a lazy arc. 

“What do you want?” she demands, leaning forward to brace herself against the door frame. The analytical part of her mind registers her posturing, _the way she has puffed up to fill the available space in an attempt to intimidate a perceived threat_ , as distinctly catlike. If Cleo was this close to the surface already, she had even less time than she thought.

No matter, this won’t take long.

"Is Harry-ah here?" one of them steps forward, pink hair flopping into his eyes.

“Who’s asking?” Hermione arches a brow and stares down her nose at the group.

Even as she asks, she knows the answer.

Despite being their first meeting, she would know these men anywhere. They are an exact match to the profiles she and Ron had put together, that first night Harry went to the movies. The one who spoke first, who even now is running a hand through disheveled pink locks, the unofficial leader, could only be Namjoon. Which means the tall leggy blonde, dressed as if he just walked out of a fashion catalogue, must be Jin, the supposed mother figure of the group and Namjoon’s partner. The three younglings, _if she goes by age she’d place them as older than her, but they have an air of innocence about them still, one that she lost years ago,_ huddled together, must be Jungkook, Taehyung and Jimin, the trio of mischief makers that Harry often compared to the Weaslely twins when he was talking about the group.

_Which leaves ..._

Hermione feels herself stiffen when her roaming gaze lands on the two unknowns. The taller she dismisses as irrelevant, eyes caught by the shorter of the pair. The mop of mint green hair he sports is the exact shade that had painted her brothers nails for the last two weeks. She is distantly aware of the way her lip curls, baring clenched teeth, of the way her eyes have narrowed, homing in on this man, her target.

The cause of Harry's pain.

Hermione is startled to realize the tightness in her throat is a near audible growl, steadily building in decibel, a hairs breath away from a full on snarl, and she forces herself to swallow it down. Her animagus form is close.

Too close. 

The lethal lioness that is as much her true form as the human one she currently wears  _demands_  that she pounce, attack, rip the one who hurt her pride, her  _pack mate_ , to shreds. Already she can feel her teeth lengthening, canines and incisors becoming razor sharp. Her fingertips tingle painfully with the need to drop her claws, to rend the man in front of her to ribbons. Hermione has been called the smartest witch of her generation. Right now, every fibre of her being is demanding retribution. But a shred of ice-cold rationalism pierces through the rage. She knows she can’t act on her instincts, can’t expose the wizarding world, can’t break the Statute of Secrecy.

The results would be catastrophic.

Hermione exerts all of her considerable will to force the transformation back. Even as the lioness within her rages, howling for release, she builds a sturdy cage around it, enforcing the walls until they are impenetrable. She uses Ron, her mate, as a touchstone of calm, imagining him, head thrown back in laughter, teasing her for her earlier word choice, _Ha! Cat-astrophic! Get it? Because your animagus form is a giant cat?_ and feels the lioness finally subside, sinking down on her haunches with a low grumble. She soothes herself with the knowledge that whilst she might not be able to inflict _physical_ damage on these men, she has never needed physical force to flay someone alive. Regardless of form, these men will soon learn why her wrath was feared on the battlefield.

Significantly calmer, Hermione runs her tongue over her teeth – blunt, _human_ teeth. 

Excellent. 

She turns back to the oddly silent group in front of her. They haven’t moved, apparently able to sense the predator even if they can’t see it. 

Good.

Frightened lips are loose lips. 

“Well?” she purrs, tilting her head slightly to keep the whole group in her line of sight. “Cat got your tongue?”

“Ah, sorry!” the pinkette flushes and raises a hand to the rub at the back of his neck. “My name is Namjoon—“  _fucking called it_  “and this is Jin, Taehyung, Jimin, Jungkook, Hoseok and Yoongi.”

“And why exactly do you want to see Harry, Namjoon,” she drawls, even as she files the names of the two unknowns away.

“Miss, we made a mistake,” Namjoon turns huge, doleful eyes on her and Hermione has to work to stifle the scoff that wants to escape at his pathetic attempt to manipulate her. She grew up with Luna and Ginny and the goddamn Weasley twins, chaos personified, all of whom were _much_ better at the soulful look than this useless piece of dragon dung dirtying her doorstep.

“That’s nice and all, big of you even, for being able to identify that, but I’m still waiting for a reason to let you see Harry,” Hermione reminds him, fingers idly beating out a pattern on the doorframe.

“Who are you to decide who sees Harry?” the youngest of the group blurts out, glaring up at her.

“Kookie!” The one she has dubbed Taehyung hisses, reaching out to grab the boy by the shoulder.

Hermione finds herself reluctantly amused at the sight. The boy is like a kitten, all fluff, baby teeth and righteous indignation. It’s simply adorable.

The boy shakes off his friend and turns furious eyes on her, "Who gave you the right?”

Hermione stills, fingers pausing in their drumming, amusement gone.

“You want to talk about rights?” she says silkily, pushing away from the door.

The boy pales and stumbles back a step.

Hermione presses the advantage, a lifetime of fighting for her life leaving her completely unwilling to let the opportunity slip past, “I’ve known Harry since we were eleven years old. I have every right to deny you entrance and access to his apartment, particularly given that you’ve brought with you the man who rejected him as a soulmate, which happened without an ounce of resistance or a ‘by your leave’, if I am to understand the situation correctly.” 

She watches the blow land, sees the way the youngest falls back into the reaching hands of his soulmates. Sees the way Namjoon raises a shaky hand to hide his eyes, sees the way Jin flinches in shame. She watches stony eyed as the mint haired bastard, _she refuses to use his name, he doesn’t deserve the courtesy,_ crumples in on himself, sinking into Hoseok who looks quietly devastated. 

“We didn’t –” Jin starts forward, drawing level with Namjoon, brown eyes wide and beseeching.

“That’s right, you didn’t.” Hermione cuts him off, unwilling to listen to excuses. “You didn’t do anything. You said nothing, you did nothing and now you are nothing. Nothing to me and absolutely nothing to Harry.”

Movement snaps her attention back to the Mint Haired Bastard who staggers forward and falls to his knees at the foot of the stairs.

Pathetic, the dark part of her, _the part of her that had punched Malfoy in third year, the part of her that had kept Rita imprisoned for months in a jar, the part of her that had turned her into a formidable force on the battlefield and made Death Eaters and Dark creatures alike reconsider approaching her_ , whispers.

“Please,” he says desperately. “I need to see Harry, I need to apologize.”

The flames of her fury roar, his plea oil thrown on a bonfire.

"No," she snarls, and is viscously pleased when he jerks back as if struck. "You don't get to come here and demand to see him after what you did." 

“Please, you don’t understand,” he begs, and Hermione needs him to stop talking. His voice grates along every one of her nerves and she’s achingly aware of the tension in her jaw, the sharp prick of finger nails cutting into her palms from clenching too tight.

“Oh I understand plenty,” she spits. "It’s you who doesn’t understand exactly what you’ve done or what you’ve lost. But that’s fine because you don’t deserve my time and you sure as hell don’t deserve Harry.”

“Miss please—“ the man she had dismissed as unimportant steps up next to the Mint Haired Bastard and lays a hand on his shoulder in support. 

She feels her temper spike dangerously, _did they offer Harry the same level of comfort and care when the Mint Haired Bastard rejected him_ , and she has to clamp down  _hard_  on her magic. They need to leave, and soon, before she does something that will have far reaching repercussions for the wizarding world.

“Nope,” Hermione manages through gritted teeth. “You need to leave.” 

“Miss, please hear us out," Namjoon steps forward again, appearing to realize the other two weren't going to get anywhere. "We didn’t know he was their bonded—"

“Their?” Hermione parrots, cutting him off, eyes narrowing, mind running a mile a minute as she tries to understand the implications of that word. Her eyes skim back over the group, dismissing Namjoon and Jin, she knows they’re bonded. The three youngest are huddled together, eyes red, cheeks tear stained, bonded to each other or blanks, she deduces and thus clearly not who she is looking for.

Her eyes land on the Mint Haired Bastard and the unknown man.

The one she had dismissed as unimportant. 

Poly-bonds are rare but not unheard of in the wizarding world. Magic is a finicky force, temperamental at best, and to be able to bond twice is a privilege, of which only those with the strongest of cores even have the capacity for. Of course if there was one wizard to break the status quo, it _would_ be Harry. All of this flashes through her mind in seconds, even as her eyes rake over Harry's second soulmate. Dark messy hair, lithe build, tightly packed lean muscle. From where she is standing, she can see the man's hand where it rests on the bastard's shoulder. Keen eyes are able to make out split knuckles and spots of dried blood, and unbidden, her mind conjures up a picture of Harry as he appeared in their lounge room, cheek bruised and already swelling. 

That fucking _bastard_ , she seethes.

Hermione had been able to push aside her own emotions in the face of Harry's anguish, had been able to bottle her rage, her pain and her fear so she could be the calm port in the eye of the storm he needed. And she had, pushing every negative emotion deep down, _where it had gathered into a roiling ball of negativity, just below her sternum,_ so she could project a calm she did not feel to help Harry ground himself and rebuild his shields. That ball of negativity had only grown, pulsing angrily as she had realized what had happened, _as her brother had cried and called himself a freak, as he talked about his beast of an aunt who had no right to the familial title,_ but she had ignored it as best she could because Harry had needed her. Even though each sob that wracked his body had shot through her like short bursts of the cruciatus curse. Even as all of her protective instincts roared at her to destroy the thing that had hurt her baby brother. Even as the rage had threatened to consume her like fiendfyre. Because Harry _needed_ her. He had needed her to be strong, to be his touchstone, the grounding rod for the lightening strike of torrential grief in the wake of his heartbreak . So that's what she had become. And so, when she realizes that this man, Harry’s second soulmate, _one of the two people in this world who were supposed to love and cherish Harry unconditionally, who Harry had searched for his whole life_ , had physically attacked him, left bruises on his skin,  _dared lay a hand on her cub_ , the festering ball of emotion beings to unravel, unspooling faster and faster the longer she stands there, rendered mute by the swelling fury cresting inside her.

“Miss—” Namjoon says. His voice is pitched low, that cajoling tone all men naturally adopt when facing irate women, all projected good guy appeal to hide the _calm down, you’re being irrational_ that they’re actually thinking.

And suddenly Hermione can't do this any more. She feels her temper snap and doesn't even try to reel it back in.

She’s done.

Done pretending to be okay.

Done pretending she is anything but deeply,  _furiously_ , pissed off.

“NO!” she shouts, hair bristling as her magic surges with her emotions. “You don’t get to do this! You need to leave _right_ now and leave Harry alone. You’ve done enough!”

“Miss—” Namjoon tries again, but Hermione is done listening.

“It’s Mrs and just no,” she snarls, clenching her fists into her pockets so she isn’t tempted to go for her wand and curse them all into the next century. “How many times do I need to say this before you get the message? You have no right to be here, demanding to see Harry. None! He _trusted_ you!” she screams, voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “He protected you, cared for you, _loved_ you and you betrayed him. You don’t get to waltz back into his life with a ‘sorry’ and pretend everything is going to be okay. You don’t. I wont let you. You are going to leave right now, so help me Merlin, or I’m ringing the police and pressing charges for trespassing and assault.”

“Ma’am that’s really not necessary,” Jin steps forward, hands up, aiming to soothe and calm, but it’s much too late for that.

“I literally give zero fucks about what you deem  _necessary_ ,” Hermione snaps, savagely gratified with the collective group flinch at the expletive. Sliding her phone out of her pocket, she makes sure the boys see her unlock it and open the phonebook, “Shall we see how the press reacts to finding out BTS are soulmate abusers?”

They startle as if electrocuted, each of them gaping at her in stunned disbelief. 

“Oh?” Hermione drawls, teeth bared in a crude mockery of a grin. “You really thought Harry didn’t know? How naïve do you think he is? Your group is literally plastered on giant billboards all around the city, you can’t turn on the radio without being assaulted by your songs and a quick flick through TV channels and programs will have your band and brand shoved down your throat. Harry told me story after story in which you used your actual stage names in front of him – if you thought you were being subtle think again.” 

“But he never…” Namjoon trails off, a dazed look on his face.

“Never what?” Hermione scoffs, not even attempting to hide her disdain. “Treated you differently? Made you feel like he was only in it for the fame? Used you to get attention? Grow up the lot of you. Harry has always been better than that. Not only did he know and not tell anybody, Harry has spent the last _four weeks_ covering for your sorry asses, making sure you weren’t recognised in public and helping you keep a low profile, which is just as well given your alarming propensity to visit incredibly populated areas on a whim.” She sees Jin open his mouth to say something and barrels over him, unwilling and completely unable to listen to any more excuses, “So now you have two choices as I see it. Option one,” Hermione raises a single finger, “You leave now and never bother Harry again. We all go our separate ways, I pretend you don’t exist, and we move on with our lives. Option two,” she raises a second finger and her voice, bulldozing straight over the top of Minty Haired Bastard because she _was not done yet_ , “In which you continue to not get a clue and I call the media right now and destroy your image so thoroughly you’ll never sing again. Me? I personally hope you decide to go with option two, but I’ll respect your choice either way because I am a woman of my word and I believe in the importance of integrity and honour, both of which seem to be foreign concepts to you lot, so I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it. So what’s it going to be boys? Media shitstorm or courteous parting of ways?”

A ringing silence greets her ultimatum.

The trio of younglings gape at her in horror, before turning searching eyes on their leaders. Namjoon and Jin stare her down, eyes searching her face for something, she’s not exactly sure what it is they’re looking for, nor does she particularly care if they find it. She just waits, chin jutted out defiantly, expression set.

She’s not backing down. 

She learnt long ago, to stand her ground, to plant her feet and refuse to move, refuse to bow down to the whims of others. She has spent too long refusing to shrink herself for the betterment of others to flinch now. She learnt to turn herself into a shield, to use her body and mind and magik to protect others, her boys, her friends and family _and has the scars to prove it_.

These boys will see Harry over her dead body. 

 _And plenty of people, both stronger and deadlier than they, have tried and failed to do just that_ , she thinks darkly.

Some of her inner dialogue must show on her face, because Namjoon hesitates for one long moment before closing his eyes with a pained grimace.

“Option one,” he says finally, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Joon!” “Hyungie!” his band mates immediately protest, shouting over each other to be heard.

“No,” Namjoon is quite yet firm, raising a hand to cut off the protests coming thick and fast. The others fall silent, though a few glare mutinously at their leader. _Experience urges her to keep a particularly close watch on them, these few who show their displeasure openly, they will be the most likely to react violently when push comes to shove_. “We’re done here.”

“Glad to see at least one of you isn’t as dumb as you look,” Hermione remarks snidely, slipping her phone back into her pocket now that its no longer needed. 

The Mint Haired Bastard snarls, face an ugly sneer of fury and takes two threatening steps forward, shaking with rage. Hermione shifts her stance slightly, but otherwise doesn’t move. He doesn’t scare her. He reminds her of a defanged Tom cat, all impotent rage with no way to actually inflict any damage, but she doesn’t pity him, is incapable of anything as nice as that - this man has earned every inch of her rage, scorn and disgust. She will never forgive him for what he’s done. 

And she has no problem letting him know it. 

“Oh?” she bares her teeth in smile. “So you wish to go for option two,  _kravec_?”

The Bastard’s face drains of all colour and he stumbles to a halt, all but collapsing against the steps. At his back, Hoseok staggers, crumbling to his knees with a whimper. Hermione is almost cruelly amused at how little it takes to bring these men to their knees.        

Kravec.

 _Bond breaker._  

The scum of society.

“I’m not,” he gasps, lurching forward on his knees, arm outstretched, fingers grasping.

Hermione watches dispassionately, eyes trained on his hand, ready to act should he lay even one finger on her.

“Yoongi!” Namjoon barks, darting forward and grabbing the smaller boy by the arm, dragging him up and away.

Jin steps forward, helping Hoseok to his feet. 

“None of us want option two,” the soft-spoken man says, gathering the sobbing boy close. “We’ll take our leave now. Sorry for bothering you ma’am.”

“See that it never happens again,” Hermione watches, face blank but eyes burning with the embers of her banked fury, as Jin and Namjoon collect their bandmates one by one, gathering them in close and ushering them away.

Not one of them turns to look back.

The sound of slow clapping makes her whirl around, wand slipping easily into her hand, only to pause when she spies Ron leaning in the doorway.

“Merlin that was hot,” he breathes, staring at her in adoration.

Hermione feels her cheeks heat up and knows she’s blushing, but she can’t stop the feeling of embarrassed dread creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks red, “How long have you been standing there?” 

“From when you began talking about rights,” Ron says, a look on his face as if he’s replaying the conversation in his minds eye. He shakes his head slightly and stalks closer, caging her in against the wall. “It was glorious.” 

Hermione sighs gustily, “I was just so _angry._ ” 

Ron pulls her impossibly closer, ducking his head to nose along her jaw and breathe in her scent. Slipping her arms around her bonded’s waist, Hermione leans into him, trusting him to take her weight. She feels exhausted, emotionally wrung out, and yearns to sink into her animagus form and find a patch of sunlight to curl up in for a well deserved nap. But like this, cradled in her mate’s embrace, its enough to take the edge off and has her inner lioness purring happily.

“Cleo nearly made an appearance and mauled the minty haired bastard,” she admits in a small voice, ashamed at the lack of control over her mental and emotional state the confession implies. 

“Felix would have helped,” Ron says darkly, and Hermione shivers, turning to tuck her face into the hollow of his throat. The promise of pack stepping up and helping her defend her territory, her cub, soothes her inner lion further and she feels the last of her tension drain away. 

The pair of them stand in silence, soaking up the comfort offered and returning it in equal measures, until Ron speaks up, “Do you reckon they’ll be back?”

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Hermione snarls, a hint of Cleo leaking out at the thought.

“My fierce lioness, so ready to defend her pack,” Ron leans back enough to press a quick, but gentle, peck to her lips.

“You are such a dork,” Hermione tells him, the smile she can feel tugging at her lips taking any sting out of the statement. 

“Ah, but I’m your favourite dork,” Ron says with a saucy wink.

“You’re my favourite dork,” Hermione agrees easily, leaning up to seal the promise with a kiss.

“How bad is he?” Ron asks, when they pull away, and she can see the concern for Harry written clearly across his face.

“Bad,” Hermione admits, tugging her bonded inside and shutting the door behind them.

Together, they make their way to the lounge room.

“Fourth year bad or fifth year bad?” Ron says, and Hermione shudders.

“Neither,” she blinks back tears. “Worse.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron says weakly, sinking into a chair. 

Hermione stands, lost and adrift in the middle of the room until Ron reaches out a hand to her. Moving forward, she places her hand in his and doesn’t resist when he pulls her down, curling his lanky arms around her. She sinks into the embrace and comfort offered, burying her face in his neck.

“What are we going to do Ron?”

The question hangs between them and Hermione hates how small her voice is. Hates the feeling of helplessness that is curling through her veins, knows that despite all her brains and intuition, she can’t possibly fix this, can’t make it better, can’t make it right. 

“There’s nothing we can do, except be there for him,” Ron says, voice thick, holding her tight.

And Hermione, tucked in her bonded’s grasp, cradled close and safe, finally gives in to the tears.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, thank you to all those who commented and left kudos - you are the wind beneath my wings, my inspiration, the light of my life, the dew on the lily pads of my life, y'all are awesome <3 
> 
> Secondly, a shout out to my buddy Tipu, I hope you ace your exam! (time zones are not my friend but by my calculations it’s either today or tomorrow) 
> 
> Thirdly, apologies for this chapter - I rewrote it like five times and I'm still not exactly happy with it, but it's as done as it's ever going to get. Also just a heads up this is a filler chapter to get everyone where I needed them to be for the next bit, so sorry in advance!

Jungkook is deeply unsettled.

The walk back to the apartment is eerily silent. It feels unnatural to be walking beside his soulmates when they’re so silent. If it weren’t for their hands, firm and warm and clasped around his, he’d almost think they had fallen behind, that he was walking alone with only his swirling thoughts for company. As it stands, he keeps his gaze locked on his hands, tracing the gold bands decorating the fingers laced with his, fingers he knows better than his own. Two sets of hands, a beautiful juxtaposition of each other, _one with long, elegant fingers that cradle his, the other with short fingers that curl around his pinky in a loose but steady grip,_ but a perfect fit for his own.He watches as cheery yellows and the bold orange, _the colours he has come to associate with Jimin and Taehyung, the colours that if he was asked, he’d say were his favourites, the colours that never fail to make him smile,_ disappear, taken over by dark purple shot through with alarmingly bright streaks of magenta. He clasps the hands wrapped in his tighter, squeezing in an effort to comfort, who he’s not exactly sure. But he thinks it might be himself, particularly when he catches sight of Hoseok’s tearstained face. Misery chases the dancer’s step, hanging over him like a cloud, robbing him of his smile, his energy, his graceful movements reduced to a slow, painful shuffle. Yoongi walks next to his partner, expression shuttered, an almost dazed look on his face. It’s as if the older boy’s mind is light years away, his body moving forward on autopilot. Jungkook wonders if he’s reliving their encounter with the scary-noona like he is, wonders if the rapper’s brain is torturing him with the same three sentences:

_You didn’t do anything. You said nothing, you did nothing and now you are nothing. Nothing to me and absolutely nothing to Harry._

Because she was right.

He  _had_  done nothing.

Part of him wants to blame his shock at seeing Yoongi so thoroughly lose his composure, but a larger part of him refuses to accept that excuse, refuses to absolve himself of the burning guilt that scorches his throat. Harry had always been warm and welcoming, offering help in tiny little ways that you never really noticed at the time but eased the way forward and, when looking back, you noticed made a world of difference. Jungkook has to scrunch his eyes shut against the sting of tears, remembering the way the older boy had let him call him hyungie, had accepted their use of honorifics, their expression of culture, so easily when they had explained why it was important to them.

The fifteen minute walk seems to last an eternity, the journey made all the longer by the sombre mood. Jungkook walks closer to his soulmates, bumping into them every now and then, reassuring himself they’re still there, still with him, still his. 

They reach the apartment at last and file into the lounge room. Jungkook enters the room last and heads straight for Taehyung who has claimed one of the armchairs. Clambering into the artificial ginger’s lap, Jungkook wiggles until he’s wedged between the back of the couch and plastered along Taehyung’s side. When Jimin walks by, he reaches out to snag him around the waist, dragging the unresisting boy into his lap, needing the physical reassurance of having both of his bonded close. Neither protest his actions, rather both make moves to bundle him closer still; Jimin squirming forward until he can bury his face in the hollow of his throat, while Taehyung winds his arms around his shoulders, resting his chin on the crown of his head. Jungkook feels worn, exhaustion clinging to his bones and tugging at his eyelids. He’s tired in a way that surpasses the physical, in a way that eclipses the fatigue he associates with his schedule as an idol, with long days training and even longer nights performing.

His eyes slip closed, only to snap open when Hoseok asks the question that had been hovering unspoken in the air the whole walk home, “What are we going to do?”

Silence greets his words, stifling and thick.

What  _are_  they going to do? 

What can they possible do to make this right?

“We’re going to find Harry-hyungie and apologize,” Jungkook says, surprising himself and his soulmates if the startling blue speared by yellow flooding his nails is any indication.

“Jungkookie—” Jin starts to say, and Jungkook just  _knows_ the eldest is going to explain in explicit detail why they can’t do that.

He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want to entertain the thought that there is nothing they can do, that they just have to accept that this is reality. Because they have to fix this, they have to make it right. 

They have to.

“Nope,” Jungkook says loudly, cutting the oldest off. He sits up slightly so he can level the room with a challenging stare. “We’re going to find Harry-hyungie, even if he doesn’t want to be found, and we’re going to fix this because he’s our friend, and more than that, he’s Yoogni- and Hoseok-hyungie’s soulmate.”

“How are we going to do that when the scary-noona won’t let us anywhere near him?” Jimin grumbles, but the orange creeping across the planes of Jungkook’s nails tells him that he’s piqued the other’s interest.

“She wont let us into his  _apartment_ , but it’s not like Harry-hyungie is a recluse, he’ll have to go outside at some point,” Jungkook reasons, sinking back into the comfort of his soulmates now that he’s made his point.

“Kookie’s right,” Namjoon says, straightening from the slouch he had fallen into. “We won’t have to deal with her if we happen to bump into him somewhere else.” 

“We could keep an eye on the usual places like the supermarket and the arcade,” Jin says, catching onto their train of thought, his eyes sparkling with renewed determination. “He can’t stay inside his apartment forever.”

Jungkook feels the way Taehyung practically thrums with excitement below him and knows that both of his bonded are on board.

Which just leaves …

“Hyungie?” Jungkook calls, eyes on the mint-haired rapper. He hasn’t spoken a word since the scary-noona called him a kravec and it’s starting to worry him.

Yoongi looks up at him, eyes red rimmed but glinting with his resolve.

“Let’s do this.”

Jungkook breathes a sigh of relief.

They’re going to fix this. 

\---

Two weeks later, the excitement has pittered out, drained away by each successive failure and the longer it takes for them to find Harry. 

It‘s been fourteen days.

Fourteen days of spending every spare minute and all their down time looking for Harry. Of rushing from rehearsals, of covering for each other with management, of sneaking around, of taking shifts to look for him. It was like he had vanished, leaving the country as quickly as he had arrived, but Jin knows that the raven-haired man is still in Korea, for he had seen the female Jimin had dubbed “scary-noona” several times when he was out and about, _and had been careful to ensure that she had not seen him in turn._ Each day they fail to find Harry weighs on them all, and as the days pile up, the weight of their guilt gets heavier and heavier. Jin can clearly see the toll it is taking on his bandmates. Yoongi has turned practically non-verbal and is grumpier than ever, temper on a razors edge and seconds away from snapping at anyone and everyone. Hoseok no longer smiles and can often be found either in the dance rooms practicing himself into exhaustion or staring at his nails, tracing the gold of his soulband. The maknae line is jittery, meeker, slower to laugh and crack jokes, unnaturally quiet in a way he oft had wished they would be before all this and now fiercely regrets those types of thoughts. Seeing them so subdued breaks his heart and he longs for the days they’d be causing mischief at all hours of the day. Namjoon looks more harried and stressed each day, the deep circles under his eyes speaking of restless nights. The colours that have dominated Jin’s nails,  _rusty orange and a dark green, the colour of pine needles in spring, combined with a dark plum,_  tells him enough about his bonded’s mental state to be worried.

Yet time stops for no man, the world cares naught for their collective heartache, and business resumes as usual. Their managers had swooped in that morning, bundling them all off to a fan meeting. From where he sits, Jin can see his bandmates, each doing their best to pretend to be happy for their fans, to pretend like their hearts aren’t bruised and broken, like they aren’t missing a vital part of their family. But he sees the way their smiles never quite reach their eyes, can see the way the maknae line have to force their usually effortless banter, can see the sluggish way Yoongi pokes at the stuffed animal he had been gifted, sees Hoseok frowning down at the blackout that hides his connection to Harry, sees Namjoon looking worn and weary.

“Jin-oppa!” a childish shout breaks him out of his introspection. Looking up, he does a double take when he spots a familiar face bounding towards him.

“Hyeon-ah?” he mutters, ignoring the looks he’s getting from management and his bandmates.

He remembers the exuberant little girl from the grocery store, though the memory feels old and worn, like it happened a lifetime ago. She’s just as energetic today and even more daring than he remembers, darting in and around the legs of the crowd, somehow managing to weasel past the security guards, who make an attempt to grab her as she passes. 

“Hyeon-ah!” he calls, standing up quickly and making his way around to the other side of the desk, waving off the security guard who had made to follow the little girl’s movements.

Hyeon homes in on his position with all the precision of a bullet shot from a sniper’s rifle, putting on a burst of speed and bodily throwing herself across the last few steps. Heart in his throat, Jin lunges and is utterly relieved when he makes it in time, the solid mass of squirming pre-schooler a reassuring weight in his arms.

“Hyeon-ah!” a frazzled voice shouts, catching Jin’s attention. The girl’s mother is frantically trying to push her way to the front of the crowd, but is struggling against the crush of people, the feat her daughter achieved only possible due to her diminished size.

“Hyeon-ah, did you run away from your mother?” Jin asks lowly, raising a brow at the girl cradled in his arms.

“Maybe a little,” the girl replies, hiding her face in the crook of his neck, shying away from the flickering lights and screaming people.

Jin is suddenly, horribly aware of the number of cameras pointed in his direction, snapping away furiously. A panicked glance at Namjoon, makes him sigh in relief. His soulbonded is already moving, heading down to the knot of people preventing Hyeon’s mother from getting through, getting security to help clear a path for the frantic mother. Hitching Hyeon closer and bodily shielding her from the cameras, Jin moves quickly, heading towards the back room, away from the prying eyes of the media and the well-meaning ARMY fan base. 

“Jin-oppa,” a small hand pats his cheek, demanding his attention. 

“Yes Hyeon-ah?” Jin says, turning to the child in his arms. He is greeted with a pout of epic proportions and buries the urge to coo at the sight.

“You never telled me you were famous!” Hyeon says, all big, wounded eyes and accusatory tone.

“Ah,” Jin winces.

How to explain to a toddler the complexities of being an idol? 

Biting his lip, he walks them over to the couch in the corner and sits down, arranging Hyeon on his lap so he can see her face, thinking hard.

“Well Hyeon-ah, you know how I’m famous?” Jin waits for the little girl to nod before continuing. “Sometimes I have to pretend I’m not me so I can do stuff without the media making a fuss. That day at the grocery store I was being Jin, not Seokjin from BTS. Does that make sense?” 

“You hafta pretend like Sailor Moon?” Hyeon asks, eyes round with childish awe.

Jin doesn’t bother to hide his grin this time.

“Just like Sailor Moon,” he confirms with a conspiratorial wink. “You met Usagi at the grocery store not Sailor Moon. I am sorry I couldn’t break my cover and tell you I’m famous though.” 

“That’s okay, I forgive you,” Hyeon says magnanimously, patting his cheek with one hand. 

“Thank you Hyeon-ah,” Jin says, feeling his eyes crinkle under the force of his grin.

“But I still be friends with both right?” Hyeon asks, suddenly worried at the thought of having to choose.

“You can be friends with both,” Jin reassures her, ruffling her hair with a fond smile.

“Good, coz Sailor Moon has been sad lately an’ I wanna give her a hug,” Hyeon announces.

“Who’s been sad?” Jin wonders if she actually understood the metaphor or if she got caught up in the excitement of Sailor Moon. 

“Sailor Moon oppa!” Hyeon says, the  _duh!_ as audible as if it had been said.

“In the anime?” Jin stifles the rueful laughter that wants to escape. He probably should have seen that coming.

“No oppa!” Hyeon frowns at him. “Seokjin from BTS is Sailor Moon an’ you’re Usagi, pay ‘ttention!” she scolds making Jin gape at her in shock. “Seokjin from BTS is sad oppa,” she adds in that matter of fact tone all small children seem to have mastered. “His eyes don’t smile even when his mouth does an’ I wanted to give him a sucker an’ a hug coz that makes me happy an’ less sad an’ mama says that’s what friends do.”

Jin stares down at the little girl in his lap, completely speechless.

“Why have you been so sad Jin-oppa?”

The question startles him and he looks up, meeting mournful brown eyes, and feels compelled to answer honestly, “I made a mistake and that mistake led to a friend getting really hurt.”

“But that’s easy peasy!” Hyeon says, clapping her hands in excitement.

“Oh?” Jin quirks a brow.

“You just gotta apologize oppa! Then your friend will forgive you an’ you can smile for real!” Hyeon babbles excitedly.

“I wish it was that easy Hyeon-ah,” Jin smiles sadly. “He won’t even talk to me and I’m not allowed to visit him.”

“Why don’t you write him a letter oppa?” Hyeon says. “Mama says letters are a time capshule of love an’ it sounds like your friend is gonna need all the love you can give.” 

Jin stares.

A letter.

Something so simple, yet for all their combined brainpower, none of them had considered in all their planning and brainstorming. And what is a song but a letter of the heart put to music? If they released a new song, and were able to leak just the right amount of information to the media, ARMY would take care of the rest and Harry, if he was still in Korea, would inevitably hear their apology.

“Hyeon-ah you’re a genius,” Jin breathes, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the crown of her head.

“Does this mean you’ll smile more? Did I help?” Hyeon asks hopefully.

“It will, you’ve been a big help Hyeon-ah thank you so much. You’re the best friend Sailor Moon or Usagi could’ve asked for,” Jin says solemnly and the little girl beams up at him.

“Hyeon-ah!” 

Man and child both look up.

Namjoon has finally arrived with the girl’s mother. 

“Hello mama,” Hyeon says sheepishly from her position on Jin’s lap. 

“Hyeon what have I told you about running off?” Hyeon’s mother moans, truly aggrieved. 

“Not to do it?” Hyeon guesses, with a game but unsure smile on her face. 

“Kim Hyeon,” her mother says warningly.                                

Oh ouch, Jin winces. The full name. His little friend is in quite a bit of trouble. Her mother looks like she’s gearing up for a lecture of truly epic proportions. 

“Kim-ssi,” Jin starts, but cuts himself off when the woman frowns at him. 

“Just Taeyeon is fine Seokjin,” Taeyeon says, “I’m not that old and you’ve looked out for my daughter twice now. I think we’re beyond the honorifics, mm?”

“Taeyeon,” Jin begins again, inwardly cringing at the lack of honorific but wise enough to listen to an individual’s request on the matter of how they wish to be addressed. “Hyeon-ah may have acted impulsively today, but I’m sure she will promise to never run off without an adult in a public space ever again.”

A quick glance down shows Hyeon nodding frantically.

“Sorry mama, I got excited,” Hyeon speaks so fast the words tumble out in an almost ineligible mess. “I’ll wait next time promise.”

Taeyeon sighs, and its as if when the exhaled air leaves her body, it takes all the anger and fight with it. “I know you didn’t mean it little one, but you scared me when you ran off like that and I couldn’t see you.”

“I’m sorry mama,” Hyeon mumbles, sniffling a little, the disappointment seemingly harder to bear than the anger that was hiding her mother’s fear.

Taeyeon walks over and plucks the child from Jin’s lap. Hyeon promptly burrows into her mother’s embrace, her sniffling intensifying. Taeyeon runs a soothing hand through her daughter’s hair, humming lightly.

Namjoon takes the chance to sidle over to Jin, sitting down next to him on the couch. 

“Feel better?” Taeyeon asks, blotting her daughters red, tearstained cheeks dry.

Hyeon wrinkles her nose and tries to wiggle away from her mother’s ministrations, but nods her head yes.

“Good girl. Now Hyeon-ah, you made several errors in judgment today, can you tell me what they were?”

Hyeon frowns as she thinks.

“I ran ahead of you an’ didn’t wait for you to catch up an’ I didn’t tell no one where I was going an’ I ran away from the security people?” she says slowly, looking up at her mother to see if she was right.

“You didn’t tell anyone,” Taeyeon corrects gently, taping the girl lightly on the nose and making her giggle. “You’re right on all accounts, what do you think we should do about that?”

“Apologize to you an’ the security people?” Hyeon guesses, making her mother beam at her proudly. 

“That’s a good start little one!” Taeyeon praises, leaning forward to rub her nose against her daughters, making the little one shriek in laughter.

Jin watches the entire reaction with a fond smile, leaning into Namjoon’s side.

“Down mummy!” Hyeon wiggles and her mother indulges with a smile. The little girl wastes no time, running over to Jin and flinging herself at him for a hug. 

“I gotta go now oppa,” Hyeon informs him solemnly. 

“I heard, I’ll miss you,” Jin says, catching the little girl and cradling her close.

 “You’re not allowed to be sad no more oppa,” she whispers, hugging him tightly around the neck.

“I’ll do my best Hyeon-ah,” he promises, pulling back to ruffle her hair.

“Bye Rap Mon-oppa,” Hyeon says, waving shyly at Namjoon from her position in Jin’s arms.

“Goodbye Hyeon-ah, be good for your mother,” Namjoon says, offering the girl a finger heart.

“I will!” Hyeon promises, little head nodding rapidly enough to shake the two pigtails on either side of her head.

“Jin, Namjoon, we need you out there,” one of their managers pokes their head through the door and Jin knows their time is up. 

“Coming manager-ssi!” Jin calls, before turning to the girl in his arms.

“Thank you for your help Hyeon, I’ll not forget it or you, my friend,” Jin says, reaching out to tweak one of her piggy tails. 

“Go oppa, they need Sailor Moon!” Hyeon urges, squirming down from his lap and running over to her mother.

“Thank you Taeyeon, you’ve raised a beautiful and intelligent little girl,” Jin says as Namjoon ushers him to his feet. “You should be very proud.”

“I am,” Taeyeon says, eyes warm and impossibly fond as she gazes at her daughter.

“Until next time,” Namjoon says, bowing low at mother and daughter before leading Jin back out into the chaos outside.

\---

Hermione takes a sip of tea and has to force herself not to spit it out, the cold liquid sitting on her tongue uncomfortably, a far cry from the piping hot drink she had prepared.

Swallowing with difficulty, she stares down at the mug, affronted. 

Tea was not supposed to betray her like this.

A quick Tempus charm reveals she had been sitting for much longer than she had initially thought, a chunk of time lost to her swirling thoughts.

“Evanesco,” Hermione waves her hand, banishing the offending liquid into non-being. Placing her mug on the table, she sits back in her chair with a sigh. Tea dealt with, her mind turns back to the problem that had been dominating her thoughts lately.

BTS.

Something about the confrontation two weeks ago had been niggling at her, telling her she had missed something, something glaringly obvious that she knows she will kick herself for later. She has been wracking her brains, trying to identify the feeling, but has been coming up frustratingly empty handed. But she’s close, she knows she just needs to  _focus_. Closing her eyes, she pulls on her Occlumency once more, diving into the memory for what feels like the hundredth time. She watches as she throws the door open and skips forward, speeding through the initial introductions, the youngest flexing his claws, Namjoon mentioning Harry’s second soulma— 

Her thoughts skitter to a stop. 

Eyes widening, Hermione stares unseeingly at the couch as everything clicks into place. The missing detail, the connection that had worried at her like a missing tooth, jumping into sharp focus.

Multi-bonds.

Harry.

Harry who had talked about his soulmate in the  _singular_.

Harry who doesn’t know he’s a part of a trio.

Harry who has no  _idea_  that the betrayal goes far deeper than either of them had thought.

Harry who has just apparated into the foyer with a near silent  _pop!_

“Hi ‘mione,” Harry mumbles, slinking into the lounge.

“Harry!” Hermione starts guiltily. 

How can she possibly tell him when she knows what it will do to him?

When she’s watched him slowly be crushed under the weight of a rejected soulbond?

When she’d been forced to watch him sit listlessly for hours in the weeks following that day, refusing food and company, misery literally pouring from him in waves?

When she's watched him claw his way back to something that resembled normalcy, but knows he still falls into melancholy more often than not? 

“’mione?” Harry asks, tearing her from her mounting panic.

She has to tell him, she realizes. He’d never forgive her if she withheld this information from him.

“Harry, I need to tell you something,” she begins, patting the chair next to her, encouraging him to sit.

He comes over hesitantly, eyes intent on her face.

“Harry,” she tries again, licking her lips. “BTS paid us a visit about two weeks ago,”

“What?” Harry’s voice is flat and Hermione winces.

“I didn’t think it worth mentioning, because I dealt with it but I’ve realized something today that I think you need to know,” she says in one breath, hurrying on when Harry just looks at her with rising impatience. “Namjoon said you had a second soulmate! And it occurred to me that you might not know and it’s important information and I just thought … you … should know,” she finishes weakly, wilting at Harry’s stony gaze.

“You’re telling me I have a second soulmate,” Harry says blankly, disbelievingly.

“That’s what Namjoon said and I didn’t sense any deceit,” Hermione says quietly. “I think he was telling the truth." 

Harry slumps backwards into the couch, raising a trembling hand to hide his eyes.

“Harry?” Hermione reaches out, intending to comfort, but is brushed off when Harry stands abruptly.

“I need to think,” he announces, moving towards the front door.

“Harry,” Hermione begs, hating how small her voice comes out.

He pauses, one hand on the doorknob, “I need to think Hermione. I’ll be back later.”

And, before she can say anything, he’s gone.

\---

When he gets outside, Harry curses.                                

Because of course it’s raining. And of course, he didn’t have the foresight to grab his jacket. A spike of irritation zips up his spine at the realization and he suddenly becomes aware of the tension in his jaw, the way he’s grinding his teeth in aggravation. 

There is no way in hell he is going back inside to get it.

The rain is picking up, slowly but surely seeping through the thin fabric of his shirt and marking up his glasses, and he almost reconsiders, almost resigns himself to getting the third degree from Hermione.

 _Are you a wizard or not_ , a snide voice whispers and he feels like smacking himself.

Waving a hand sharply in the direction of his face, he casts a non-verbal Impervious Charm, followed by a localised Warming Charm across his whole body. Both snap into place and he can immediately feel the difference, the stinging cold of the rain muted, replaced by a thin layer of heat that encases his limbs. 

With no need to go back inside, he stuffs his hands into his pockets, picks a direction at random and starts walking. Weaving through the crowd bustling along the pavement, he ducks umbrellas and bags and limbs with ease, turning most of his attention inward, towards the revelation that had blindsided him, ripped the flooring from under him just when he felt like he was clawing his way back to stable ground. 

Two soulmates. 

He has two soulmates _~~and neither of them want him~~._

He doesn’t recall touching the nervous man, the one who had cradled Yoongi so intimately that day in the apartment, but he’s the only one that could feasibly be his second.

_He has two soulmates._

For just a moment he lets himself think about what it would be like, having not one but two soulmates _~~if he got the happy ending he had dreamt about since he was old enough to understand what soulmates were~~_. Two people who would love him unconditionally for _him_ , not the Boy Who Lived or the Man Who Conquered. But just plain Harry. Two people who would put his needs first, who would support him through thick and thin, who would be there when he needed them to be. Two people who would take all the ugly, broken parts of him and love him all the harder, warmer, stronger for it. And then Harry takes those thoughts, his hopes and dreams, and buries them in the deepest recesses of his mind, locks them away under a thick layer of mental shields and barriers.

Because he knows this news changes nothing.

 _He’s still the freak whose soulmates want nothing to do with him._  

The rain picks up, sheets of water pelting him from above, drenching him in seconds. The Warming Charm he cast earlier stutters and dies under the deluge, and instantly it’s like he’s been plunged into an ice bath – tiny icicles hit his skin with renewed force and a chill permeates his limbs.

Harry curses again, shivering in the sudden cold, thoroughly done with this day. 

At least the Impervious Charm held, he thinks glumly, spying a café up ahead.

Darting across the road he puts on a burst of speed and ducks under the awning of the café. Sheltered from the worst of the storm, he casts a non-verbal drying charm under the guise of wringing the moisture out of his clothes. Warmth surrounds him, chasing away the worst of the damp and thawing his chilled limbs, but does little to ease his sour mood. When he is no longer in danger of bringing the storm in with him, he steps through the door to the café, letting it click shut behind him and making his way over to the counter.

“One green tea with honey please,” he tells the barista.

The barista plugs his order into the register and recites the price in a drawled monotone. The expression on his face is one shared by hospitality and retail workers the world over – disconcertingly plastic smile and dead eyes, lights on but nobody’s home. 

Harry quickly hands over the correct change and shifts to the side to wait for his drink. The barista is efficient, pumping out orders swiftly, and soon Harry is making his way over to a booth in the back of the café, drink in hand. Sinking into the plush cushions with a sigh, Harry glances out the window. It’s finally stopped raining and the sun is trying to peak out from behind the clouds. 

 _Figures, the moment he’s comfortably seated and under shelter, the rain would stop_ , he scoffs internally, taking a sip of his tea.

Just his luck really. 

**_… latest hit released by BTS …_ **

Harry’s head jerks up, all of his attention honing in on the radio announcement.

**_… rumoured to have been inspired by one of the boy’s soulmates, hold onto your heartstrings ladies, this one is a heart jerker!_**

Harry curses the translation spell he barely needs anymore, even as Taehyung’s husky voice floats out over the café.

_I don’t know why I couldn’t say it then,_

_It hurt …_

_Now cry,_

_I am just so sorry for you,_

_And cry,_

_I couldn’t keep you safe._

Hearing his friend’s voice again after so long sends a lance of pain through his chest. He misses them fiercely, with a longing that aches.

_Now deeper and deeper,_

_The wound gets deeper,_

_It’s like a broken piece of glass,_

_That can’t be turned back,_

_Every day,_

_It’s only my heart that hurts deeper,_

_You were so fragile,_

_And you received my punishment instead of me_

A flash of Yoongi standing over him, snarling, flashes through his mind and he jerks so hard he almost spills the rest of his tea.

_Stop crying and tell me something,_

_Tell me,_

_I am a coward,_

_“Why were you like that to me back then?”_

_“I’m sorry”_

He hastily sets down his tea, suddenly desperate to be as far away from the song and this café as possible. Wisps of lyrics drift over the clinking of mugs on saucers, of teaspoons on porcelain, of laughter and conversations and the noise of the coffee machine churning in the background.

_I’m sorry,_

_I’m sorry ma brother,_

_No matter how much I hide_

_It doesn’t go away …_

_What else can I say_

Standing abruptly, chair squealing against the linoleum floor, he makes a break for the exit, unable to stay a second longer.

_I’m sorry,_

_I’m sorry …_

Harry throws open the door of the café and spills into the street.

The sudden change in lighting has him blinking rapidly, a hand coming up to shade his eyes with a muttered curse. In a testament to his shitfest of a day and in true Potter style, the moment his eyes are covered, he immediately slams into something solid, knocking him off balance. Hands on his shoulders steady him, helping him find his feet. Harry looks up, shaking hair out of his eyes, intending to properly thank the one who saved him from eating pavement, and the thank you dies on his lips.

Yoongi and their third stare down at him in concern.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” his second soulmate murmurs shakily, with a tremulous smile.

The words jolt Harry out of his shock.

A sharp shrug, a  _twist_  and pivot, has him ducking back out of reach, eyes on the threat. 

“Harry?” his second calls, lips trembling.

Yoongi says nothing, just stares at him with wild eyes. 

Harry’s heart is racing, kicked into overdrive at the appearance of the two figures he had worked so hard to avoid. A rising sense of despair is choking him, burying the rational and logic side of him beneath a wave of panic. 

“Harry, we’re sorry, please,” his second begs, taking a step forward.

Harry is aware that his breathing is too fast, too shallow to bring in the oxygen he needs, but he is completely unable to do anything about it. He feels light headed, even as he backs away, stomach roiling angrily.

“Harry, please,” his second is still talking, but Harry isn’t listening, can’t listen to anything beyond the roaring in his ears.

Yoongi steps forward on his other side and Harry swings his head wildly to keep both men in his sights. He needs to move, get to somewhere safe.

“Please leave me alone,” Harry manages to choke out past the lump in his throat. Tears sting his eyes, even as his lungs burn for air, and his limbs tremble with the need to move.

Both men step forward, faces drawn, arms outstretched, and Harry  _bolts_.

He hears the two men shout something and scramble to give chase, and chokes back a sob, desperately putting on another burst of speed. 

 _Leave me alone_ , he wants to scream, but he can’t afford to slow down, not when he can hear them gaining on him. He runs, sneakers slapping the hard concrete, wind biting his cheeks and tearing at his hair. He spots a side alley up ahead, the sanctuary it offers propelling him forward.

 _Escapeescapeescapeescape_  his mind shouts at him, and he takes the corner dangerously fast, sneakers threatening to slide out from under him. Stumbling forward, he ducks behind one of the large rubbish bins and throws himself into a crouch. Screwing his eyes shut, he calls upon his magic and tries to visualize the Potter-Weasley shared flat. His mind races, thoughts skittering just out of reach, and he feels the gathering magic fizzle out with a splutter at the lack of appropriate conduit.

“No! Come on!” Harry curses, tugging violently on a fistful of hair. This can’t be happening, he needs to focus, he needs to get out of here. 

“Destination, determination, deliberation,” he chants under his breath, willing his mind to calm.

“Harry!” the shout of his name breaks his concentration and draws a whine from his throat at the proximity.

“Destination, determination, deliberation. Destination, determination, deliberation.” The words slur together in his mounting panic, but for all he tries, the specific details of the flat remain just out of his reach.

“Harry stop!” this time the shout comes from the mouth of the alley and Harry knows he’s out of time.

Whirling around, he sees them approaching at a steady clip and he scrambles backwards on his hands and knees, barely registering the muck and filth he’s crawling through.

“Leave me alone,” he breathes, choking on a sob when his back meets the solid brick of the building at the end of the alley. 

“We just want to talk Harry,” his second says, hands outstretched in front of him, voice pitched low to soothe, even as he edges closer, Yoongi keeping pace at his side. 

Harry doesn’t feel soothed.

He is the opposite of soothed right now.

Trembling, cowering against the wall behind him, he feels hunted, his mind trying to drag him into memories of the war. 

“Please,” he begs, biting down hard on his lower lip, using the pain to stay grounded in the present.

The pair have drifted apart, consciously or subconsciously spreading out to maximize the space they can cover in the small cramped alley, cutting off all exit points. Harry feels his eyes widen and his panic  _spike_  as they close in on him. 

“Leave me alone!” he shouts desperately, throwing up his hands to protect his face, magic lashing out in response to his volatile emotions. Peering through the gap in his arms, Harry stares in horror as his magic slams into his soulmates. His second bares the brunt of the strike, having being closest, and is thrown back several feet, hitting the ground hard. Yoongi is battered backwards, back forcefully colliding with a wall.

Harry, crouched at the epicentre of the attack, remains completely unharmed. 

“No,” he whimpers, shaking his head in denial.

This is worse than when he was younger and his magic acted out.

He attacked his  _soulmates_.

The dark haired man groans and rolls over, struggling to his feet. 

“Hoseok!”

Harry can only watch, glued in place, frozen, as Yoongi rushes over to check on their third.

“I’m okay, Yoon,” his secon— Hoseok reassures him, clambering to his feet.

Yoongi slings an arm around the others waist, drawing him into a hug even as his hands check him over for injury.

“Yoon, I’m fine,” Hoseok insists, batting his hands away. “ _Harry_." 

At his name, Harry starts, eyes blown wide, teeth sinking into his lower lip.

Both men turn to look at him, and Harry  _whines_  as he registers their shock, anger and  _fear_. 

He can’t deal with this, he’s not strong enough.

He doubts he’ll ever be strong enough.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, grasping at his magic and tugging forcefully, willing himself to be somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere he doesn’t have to face  _this_.

“No, Harry,” Hoseok starts forward, but is too late. 

With a soft  _pop_! of displaced air, he’s gone.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the accidental double post - the chapter gotten eaten the first time i attempted to post it, but i think i fixed it! 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos, you make me blush and legitimately make shit days at work bearable so thank you, y'all are freaking beautiful and I love every single one of you and wish to shower you all with love and affection because you deserve it <3
> 
> Things to be aware of for this chapter:
> 
> 1) I majorly screw with timelines (in a throwaway comment not a plot relevant section, but incase people are actually paying attention to the timeline) to make things fit how I want them to #whateverwhateveridowhatiwant
> 
> 2) this chapter contains a detailed description of a panic attack - please proceed with caution
> 
> 3) theres a fair chunk of telling (rather than showing) in the later half of the chapter, because i needed to get all the characters on the same page and that was the only way i could make it work but hopefully it works :)
> 
> 4) POV change and introspection galore because #whynot

Hoseok has no idea what is going on.

His mind is racing, gibbering about magic and mutants and X-genes, shock flooding his veins like ice. Rationally, he knows that magic doesn’t exist, can’t exist out of fiction, but he also can’t ignore the evidence staring him in the face. He’s unable to rationalize the way the air had fairly  _pulsed_ with power, the memory of being bodily thrown to the ground, the aches and pains that are making themselves known across his body. He doesn’t waste time trying though, he can’t, not when his heart is pounding, something in him urging him forward, shouting at him to get to his soulmate, to Harry who looks so small and absolutely terrified _,_ curled in on himself in the filth of the alley they’ve found themselves in.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whimpers, a wild, frantic air about him. 

His unease grows, a sense of urgency flooding his veins, and Hoseok starts forward desperately, “No, Harry—”

But he’s too late.

With a soft  _pop_! of displaced air, he’s gone.

Hoseok stares at the space Harry used to be.

The world sharpens in focus even as sound fades out, leaving only ringing silence in its place. Distantly he is aware of the sting of brickwork biting into the unprotected skin of his knees, registers the small, broken part of him that _howls_ in anguish, clocks Yoongi staring at him in concern, lips moving but sound not registering.

Comprehension is slow, trickling in incrementally.

The space in front of him is empty. 

His soulmate is gone. 

 _Harry_ _is_ _gone_.

Once again his second is out of his reach, no leads or even a hint of where to start looking left behind.

The sound slams back on, like someone plugging in an auxiliary cord, a canopy of noise battering at him, barely hiding the near audible sound of something deep inside him shattering into a thousand tiny shards.

“Fuck!” he screams, slamming a fist into the ground, needing an outlet for the _ragefrustrationgriefloss_ that streaks across his vision, painting the world red.

And then he’s swearing again, vicious and pain filled, knuckles throbbing sharply, agony flooding up his arm in waves. He has a moment to wonder if he broke anything important, _if he did he knows that manager-nim will be furious,_ before the pain rips through the haze that had gripped him momentarily, clearing his cloudy vision and leaving his mind frighteningly clear.  _Lashing out in violence, hmm? Becoming a bit of a nasty habit this aggressive streak of yours isn’t it … just like Harry’s relatives,_ a little voice in the back of his head says, viciously yanking at his already bruised and battered heartstrings, sending a virtual flood of self-loathing crashing over him.

“Hobi!”

And then Yoongi is there, arms caging him in, cradling him close. Hoseok doesn’t struggle, doesn’t fight him, collapsing forward into the embrace.

“Yoon, he was right there,” he whispers, closing his eyes against the sting of tears. “He was right there and we lost him.” 

“We’ll find him,” Yoongi says, voice gentle but with an underlying steel. 

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Hoseok lets it out in a rush.

They will find him. 

Hoseok lets that sink in, lets the conviction of the statement settle into his bones, wraps the oath in his determination and resolve and cradles it next to his heart.

“Okay,” he says, opening his eyes. Raising a hand, he scrubs at the wetness on his cheeks with his jumper sleeves.

“Okay,” he says again, sitting up properly and meeting Yoongi’s gaze.

“Come on,” Yoongi says, urging him to his feet. “We need to tell the others.”

Hoseok has just enough presence of mind to send out a group text, _the very thought of dealing with his bandmates right now scrapes unpleasantly against raw nerves, but the thought of waiting, of delaying the inevitable is worse. Better to get it over with_. Dragging his phone out of his pocket, he punches briefly at the keypad before hitting send.

_need to talk, band meeting @ apartment in 10 - HJ_

Immediately, his phone chirps with a message from Jungkook, containing a series of emojis and exclamation marks. His phone buzzes again, heralding more text messages from the band, but he doesn’t feel up to answering. Flicking the silencer on, he stuffs his phone back into his pocket and turns back to Yoongi. 

“Told the others to meet us at the apartment in ten,” he mumbles, burrowing into the other rapper’s side.

“Come on then, we better get a move on if we want to get there in time,” Yoongi says, dragging him closer and starting forward.

When they make it back to the apartment, they don’t even have a chance to knock before the door is being thrown open.

“Did you find him hyungie?” Jungkook demands, eyes wide and searching, craning his neck to look behind them, as if Harry is hiding and will pop out and answer in the affirmative. Jimin and Taehyung crowd behind the youngest and Hoseok doesn’t have the energy to deal with this right now. He’s sore, he’s tired and he just wants to get inside and collapse on the couch. Yoongi seems to be on the same page.

The other rapper curls an arm firmly around Hoseok’s waist and pushes past the trio, heading for the lounge with a grunted affirmative, “We did.” 

“Well were is he?” Jimin pesters, following along on their heels.

“Not here,” Yoongi says bluntly, guiding Hoseok down into the closet armchair, settling next to him with a sigh.

“Hyungie, I can see that,” Jimin pouts, flinging himself onto the couch next to Jungkook who’s already seated. “You don’t have to state the obvious.”

Taehyung doesn’t bother with the couch, throwing himself at the maknae who catches him easily, cradling the artificial ginger close. A flicker of irritation spikes through Hoseok, spurred by the bubbling brew of envy pooling low in his gut, _formed the day he found out he was in a tri-bond and added to each day spent without his second, forced to watch the youngest of their group be so open with their affection, the solid bond between them a reminder of what should be, what he could have had_ , boiling over as he watches the three cuddle on the couch. Yoongi squeezes his hand, a wordless comfort and Hoseok turns, burying his face in his partners shoulder, disgusted with himself. The youngest deserve every happiness they can find. He knows that, knows he shouldn’t begrudge them the tactile comfort they have become so used to, but its hard, so hard to curb his jealousy knowing his second is so far away and hurting.

“We ran into Harry near the café,” Yoongi says, voice carefully blank. “He ran as soon as he recognised us. We followed and cornered him in an alley. He reacted poorly to being boxed in and used … some … power to throw us backwards before he disappeared.”

The younger three immediately begin speaking, all at once, throwing rapid-fire questions that blend into a barrage of indecipherable babble.

“What do you mean he reacted badly? How badly—”

“Power? What power—”

“ _Threw_ you? What do you mean—”

“Aish, one at a time!” Yoongi barks, and the noise cuts off, a sheepish silence settling in its wake. Cutting a frosty glare at the trio on the couch, Yoongi pauses before continuing, “I don’t know how to explain it … it was like being battered by the wind … a force physically threw us backwards, literally blowing us off our feet. Harry, he looked terrified, like he hadn’t meant to do it, and then he vanished right before our eyes.” 

“Yoongi, I’m not saying it didn’t happen,” Namjoon says reasonably, and Hoseok frowns into Yoongi’s shirt. Namjoon might not be  _saying_ it, but the way his tone practically drips with scepticism and disbelief tells its own story. “But people don’t just throw other people around with magic or teleport. Are you sure that’s what happened?”

“You calling me a liar?” Yoongi says, and Hoseok feels his partner bristle defensively, shifting under him. “Why would I lie about this?”

“I’m not calling you a liar,” Namjoon soothes, “I’m just saying that this isn’t one of your comics. Magic isn’t real, people don’t have the X-gene Yoon, this is real life. I’m sure there’s some other explanation for what you think you saw." 

Now that was uncalled for.

Frowning, Hoseok swings upright, mouth opening to explain to Namjoon exactly why he should shut his face and listen, but doesn’t get a chance, for at that precise moment, a loud  _crack!_ rends the air and suddenly, there’s a furious woman in their midst.

“You’ve got exactly 30 seconds to tell me what you know and who you’ve told before I am forced to take drastic action.”

And Hoseok wants to laugh at the dumbstruck look on Namjoon’s face. 

Explain  _that_ Joonie, he thinks snidely.

\---

The tube of apparition spits him out and Harry trips, fumbling the landing, falling in a heap facedown in soft plush carpet. The heady scent of old books, coffee and floo powder surrounds him and he knows he made it back to the apartment. He knows he should move, needs to warn Hermione and Ron, but he can’t move without his stomach roiling in protest or his vision whiting out, so he stays exactly where he fell, panting into the carpet. Lying there, he becomes aware of a tingling sensation spreading across his hands and feet, little fire ants trampling across his skin. His throat is unbearably tight, chest suddenly too narrow for his lungs, and he’s unable to get a full breath of air no matter how he tries.

 _I’m having a panic attack,_ he realizes, but it does little to quell the storm raging inside. There’s a pressure nesting just behind his breastbone, building like the rising tide and threatening to choke him. Over his thundering heart, he can make out the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

“Harry? Harry!”

Hermione is suddenly at his side.

It occurs to him that he should roll away, that he’s still mad at her for interfering in his life, but he can’t move, can’t feel anything other than panic, because _he_   _can’t breathe!_

“Harry you’re having a panic attack,”  _10 points to Gryffindor for your incredible deduction skills_ , he thinks somewhat hysterically, mouth gaping as he gasps for air.  _“_ You need to calm down,”  _oh really, never would have thought of that,_ “and you need to breathe for me okay?”  _I_ am  _breathing,_ he thinks somewhat indignantly, wishing he had enough air to growl at her. 

“Come on Harry, focus on my voice, in-two-three, out-two-three, in-two-three, out-two-three.”

Harry tries but he can’t follow her rhythm, can’t force his lungs to cooperate, can’t slow his breathing, can’t catch his breath. There are black spots dancing across his vision and a rising nausea has him gagging helplessly, bile burning his throat. A pair of hands settle on his back, rubbing slow circles between the sharp angles of his shoulder blades, alternating between clockwise and anti-clockwise movements, perfectly in synch with Hermione’s chanting. A second pair of hands clasp his, the warmth startling in comparison to his own clammy palms. It grounds him, helps him to focus his spiralling thoughts on something neutral, the seemingly scorching heat chasing away the chill that has sunk beneath his skin, settling into his bones.

It feels like an age passes before he is able to follow Hermione’s chanting pattern, a veritable lifetime before his lungs finally stop burning, before his vision stops swimming and his stomach settles with one final lurch. Blinking carefully, he can finally see Hermione crouched in front of him, face pinched tight with worry.

“They know,” he chokes out, because it’s important, more important than breathing. They  _know._  He broke the Statute of Secrecy. They’re all in danger because of him.

“Who know Harry?” Ron asks, and  _oh that’s where that extra set of hands came from,_ Harry thinks, absently registering the way his breathing has picked up again despite his best efforts, body reacting to the panic cresting over him.

“My soulmates,” he gasps out on an exhale, “They know because I fucked up, I fucked up so bad." 

“Know what Harry?” Hermione’s steady brown eyes find his and hold. 

“About magik,” Harry chokes, panic climbing through his veins, curling like ivy around his pounding heart. “I panicked, my magik reacted before I could control it and now they know, oh Merlin they  _know_.”

His lungs are beginning to burn again.

 _Not good,_ Harry thinks grimly.

Hermione seems to notice because she starts counting again, “In-two-three, out-two-three,” giving him something to focus on. Harry latches onto it, focusing solely on the rhythm, on breathing, on forcing his lungs to cooperate, to expand and collapse evenly. Slowly, oh so slowly, his body calms and his panicked thoughts slow from their mad gallop, his rational side coming back online. His limbs feel odd, loose and weak and cold, and he’s trembling all over, shaking uncontrollably.

 _I have the worst luck,_ he despairs, sinking back into Ron’s steadying warmth. 

Looking back up at Hermione he finally lets go of the last of his anger.

 _But the best of friends,_ he acknowledges, trusting Hermione and Ron to come up with a plan to fix this.

\---

Hermione prepares herself for battle.

She is going to fix this because there is not a chance in hell she’s going to let this blow back on Harry and cause any further damage. She wont let it. A glance at Ron shows he’s already reached the same conclusion she has – they need to act and they need to act now if they’re to ensure Harry’s safety.

“I’ll sort this out Harry,” she promises, leaning over to press a soft kiss to his brow.

Ron meets her gaze over Harry’s head and nods,  _be safe._  

 _I will,_ Hermione mouths, leaning up to seal her lips over his in a quick, passionate kiss before pulling back. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” she says out loud, pulling away from the pair. Ron slides easily into the spot she’s just vacated, pulling an unresisting Harry into a hug.

“Come on mate, let’s get you sorted, Hermione’s going to fix everything and we just need to sit back and let her do her thing,” Ron is saying as Hermione focuses.

The world narrows down to herself, her magik and her destination. Calling up a mental image of the apartment she has only ever seen in pictures, she forces her magik to comply, shoving it through well worn channels, even as she spins on her heel and apparates away. The familiar sensation of being compressed through a thin tube tugs at her before the world reforms with a sickening lurch. She finds herself in a room surrounded by men who startle badly at her sudden appearance. Without giving anyone a chance to react, she levels her wand on the room and delivers her ultimatum:

“You’ve got exactly 30 seconds to tell me what you know and who you’ve told before I am forced to take drastic action.”

“What the hell woman?” one of the youngest yelps, startling upright from where he’d been slouched over his soulmates.

Hermione snarls at him, hand tightening on her wand. Her hair bristles, sparking with her magik. She sees no point hiding it now, doesn’t bother reining it in, lets go of the tight leash she usually keeps on her core and relishes in the freedom.

“25 seconds and counting,” she snaps, sliding into a battle ready stance, feet shoulder with apart, braced and firm, but ready to move at the slightest hint of movement.

“Why don’t we all sit down and discuss this rationally,” Namjoon steps up, and Hermione bares her teeth at him in a pantomime of a smile.

“20 seconds." 

“We know Harry is magic,” Hoseok states bluntly from the other side of the room. 

Hermione whirls around and stares him down.

He meets her gaze with an unwavering stare of his own and continues, “We don’t care, we haven’t told anyone and we aren’t  _going_  to tell anyone.”

“You know he’s magic and you don’t care?” Hermione can’t keep the incredulity out of her tone, doesn’t even try. “How do I know you wont go running to the press the minute I let you all go?”

“Because he’s our soulmate,” Yoongi states with a calm that infuriates her. “We would never put him in danger like that.”

Hermione laughs, but it’s a harsh and bitter sound, not an inch of mirth in it.

“You never cared about that before,” Hermione seethes. “You told him he was a freak, that you wanted nothing to do with him and then physically assaulted him. What brought about the sudden change of heart? Suddenly hit with wave of remorse kra—”

“I thought my soulmate was dead!” Yoongi bellows, cutting her off mid-sentence. 

Hermione stares at the boy, stunned. She takes in the clenched fists, the heaving sides, the pain filled eyes, the tortured twist of his mouth. The logical part of her, the part that often gets swept to the side when she’s angry, nudges at her, her instincts whispering that she’s missed something, overlooked something of vital importance. 

Voice wrecked, Yoongi says again, “I thought my soulmate was dead. My nails turned blank two years ago. I’ve worn blackout ever since. I didn’t know he was my soulmate, I swear I didn’t  _know_.” His voice breaks on a sob and he bows his head, bangs falling forward to hide his eyes.

Hermione is the smartest witch of her generation, but she’s never hated her brain until this moment, this single moment of piercing clarity.

Two years ago. 

The Battle of Hogwarts.

Two years ago, when Harry confronted Lord Voldemort and  _died_. 

 _Oh Merlin,_ her stomach plummets and she staggers, reeling under the weight of the revelation.

“I thought,” Yoongi’s ragged voice breaks her out of her thoughts, forces her to focus on the present. “I  _thought_  he was a fan, a fan that was trying to profit from the band. I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”

Hermione closes her eyes against the sting of tears,  _so much hurt and pain that could have been avoided,_ she laments.

Because so much makes sense in light of this information.

The protective way the other boys had rallied around Yoongi, the attempted apology which had never made sense to her – why apologize after rejecting a soulbond if you truly believed the other unsuitable.

 _Oh Merlin_.

If she had let them in that day, would they have explained everything? Would Harry be happily bonded with his two soulmates, relaxed and happy instead of resting on a triggers edge, seconds away from an all out panic attack at any given moment? 

“Noona?”

A tentative voice has her eyes snapping open to find the boys staring at her, looking deeply uncomfortable and at a complete loss of how to handle her now that she’s no longer yelling at them. Her arm is beginning to tremble, protesting at being extended in front of her for so long, and she suddenly becomes aware that she is still holding them at wand point.

“Merlin, I’m sorry,” she apologizes, hastily lowering her arm. A quick flick of her wrist sheathes her wand in her holster, freeing up her hands and allowing her to press both palms to her damp ( _damp? when did she start crying?)_ cheeks to hide her glowing red blush.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione repeats, swiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I must seem like a crazy person.”

“Seem?” one of the younger boys mutters under his breath. 

“Jiminie!” Jin scolds, cuffing the boy over the head, making the boy whine in protest. 

Hermione laughs, the sound watery and thin but genuine. The boys freeze at the sound eyeing her warily.

“No, it’s fine,” she hastens to reassure. “I have a lot of explaining to do. But, before I can tell you everything, I need you to solemnly swear on your lives that not a word of this will leave this apartment.” 

“And why would we do that?” Jimin challenges mulishly, ducking his head to avoid another head swipe from an irate Jin.

“I’ve given you little reason to trust me,” Hermione agrees, cutting of the stringent reprimand she can see Jin gearing up for, gaining the full attention of everybody in the room. “But I hope I can impress upon you the importance of discretion in this matter. It’s up to you really, I can walk away right now if you don’t feel like agreeing to my terms. I am not risking Harry’s safety for your comfort or peace of mind.”

“We swear,” Yoongi rasps instantly, Hoseok nodding his consent.

“Hyungie!” Jimin pouts, but a scathing glare makes him shut his mouth with a click. His bonded fold him closer, and she sees the way they squeeze gently to comfort.

“We swear,” Taehyung says, speaking for his bonded.

Hermione flicks out a tendril of magik, closing her eyes to focus on what she is sensing from the boys. Harry is so much better at this than she is, but she has enough control for this.

 _Curiosity pulses from the youngest of the group, a beautiful shade of apricot orange. Not sensing anything nefarious from the trio, she turns her attention to Harry’s bonded and instantly flinches back, recoiling from the torrent of self-loathing and guilt that hits her with the force of a blow. Narrowing her eyes she focuses harder and is able to pick up the burning thread of resolve twining through the other two heavier emotions, shining like a beacon now that she is looking for it._  

They were telling the truth.

Nodding to herself, she pulls back.

“Right well, the first thing you need to know is magik is real,” she announces, with little fanfare. “Harry’s a wizard. Magical ability is an inherited trait usually passed on from parent to child and there’s roughly one witch or wizard to every ten Mundane, or non-magical person." 

“That’s not possible,” Namjoon blurts. “That’d mean with a global population of 7.6 billion there’d be seven hundred and sixty million of you.”

Hermione is reluctantly impressed by how quickly the other has grasped the sheer  _scale_  of what she is telling them, and from the muttered, “Nerd” and the fond looks from his bandmates, she’s not the only one. 

“There’s no way that there’d be so many of you and no one knew about it,” Namjoon continues, arms wind milling in the air as he strives to prove his point. “Seven hundred and sixty million people don’t just fly under the radar, there is absolutely no way—”

“The  _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy_ ,” Hermione cuts him off, eyeing the arms coming dangerously close to the youngest boy’s head, deciding to head this off before anyone gets hurt.

“The what now?” Taehyung blurts, leaning forward and almost tumbling from his perch in the process.

“The  _International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy,_ ” Hermione says again. “It’s basically a decree that states that wizarding society has to remain entirely separate from the Mundane, anyone who breaches it will be heavily sanctioned, fines and even prison time aren’t unusual punishments.”

The conversation is eerily reminiscent of the one Professor McGonagall had with her parents in the front room of her childhood home, back when she first received her Hogwarts letter. Except, instead of being the one introduced to the wonders and dangers of the wizarding world, she was now the expert. She ruthlessly suppresses the phantom pangs of hurt and regret that ripple through her chest, triggered by the reminder of her parents and the knowledge that they are forever out of her reach.

It does no good to focus on the past, she thinks grimly, turning back to the conversation at hand. 

“Why are you telling us this if it’s such a big deal?” Yoongi asks, eyes shrewd and gaze calculating. 

“There’s a loop-hole in the Statute,” Hermione runs a hand through her hair as she explains, tugging on the strands gently. “As Harry’s soulmates, you and those you claim as kin are allowed to know about the wizarding world in its entirety. But Harry becomes responsible for you. As your soulbonded, he would bear the consequences if you ever broke the Statute and made knowledge of the wizarding world public.”

“What do you mean by that?” Hoseok asks, wringing his hands anxiously. “You said Harry would bear the consequences. What does that mean? What consequences?” 

Hermione eyes him warily, knowing the next bit won’t go down well. But they need to know, need to understand exactly what is on the line and who will bear the brunt of the consequences should they fail to keep their mouths shut. Magik isn’t a game, and knowledge of it has always had the potential to be dangerous _._

“You have to understand, breaking the statute is a serious offence. For Mundanes, their memory would be wiped of all knowledge of the wizarding world. You’d remember nothing about Harry, me or magik,” Hermione has to shout to be heard over the sudden protests and cursing. “And Harry,” she continues on doggedly, “Harry would be thrown in Azkaban, the British wizarding prison.”

“A wizarding prison?" Namjoon's question has the others reluctantly subsiding, turning to their attention to their leader. "How would they even keep you in there when you can do your popping trick?” 

“The ‘popping trick’ as you call it,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes at the ridiculous name. “Is called apparation. And there are wards to prevent you from being able to do that. But Azkaban barely needs them, not with the dementors who act as the prison guards.”

“Dementors?” the youngest pipes up, eyes wide and curious.

The dark hair, slight head tilt and curious expression tickle at the back of her mind, oddly familiar in a way that tugs at her. Her eyes narrow, wondering why the boy is not pinging her radar, wondering why he has slipped straight through her barriers into the non-threat, _protect at all costs_ , category. 

 _Harry_ , she realizes, eyes widening.  _He looks like Harry._

And he does. 

Contrasting skin tones aside, the boy looks like a younger, more open Harry, the Harry she remembers during first and second year. Shunting that realization to the back of her mind to analyze later, she focuses on answering the boys question. 

“Dementors are probably the foulest of creatures that inhabit this Earth,” she explains, doing her best to explain the horrifying reality of dementors to people who have never experienced the frigid cold and crushing tidal wave of despair that follow in their wake. “They feed on human happiness. They drain away all your hope and joy and force you to relive your worst memories over and over again. Harry … Harry has always had more bad memories than good.” 

A quick look at her audience,  _the way_   _Jin clutches at Namjoon, fingers white and bloodless, a stricken look on his face that is matched by his bonded. The way Yoongi blanches, skin turning the colour of powdered ash. The way Hoseok is stares at the ceiling, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze, tears trickling down his cheeks into his hair. The way the youngest three shift ever so slight, huddle tight, closer together, eyes red, cheeks wet,_  shows that they understand exactly what she is implying.

“Harry has a …” she struggles to find the right words. “… particularly bad reaction to dementors,”  _understatement of the year_  “with his magik suppressed by the wards, he’d be left defenceless and his mind would probably break under the strain. He can’t end up there. He won’t survive it. So you need to swear right now that you will keep your mouths shut or I will take the necessary steps to protect Harry.”

Hermione stares down each boy, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint that they may force her hand. She finds none and is quietly relieved.

 _This could work_ , she thinks.

“We swear,” Namjoon says, eyes determined, face set.

The others echo his declaration and Hermione feels the last of her tension roll out of her shoulders. Letting out an explosive sigh, she turns and sinks into one of the abandoned couches.

“If you’re serious about this soulbond with Harry, there’s some things you need to know so you don’t fuck things up the second you see each other again.”

Hermione raises a brow at the protests, which cut off almost immediately. She purses her lips to hide her smirk,  _s_ _till got it,_ she thinks with no small degree of satisfaction. 

“What do we need to know?” Jin says into the sudden silence, a quiet determination blazing from him.  

“You should hear this from Harry,” Hermione admits. “But you need to know what you’re going to be up against. Listen closely and keep your questions till the end because I don’t know if I’ll be able to start again if I stop.” 

Again, she waits for their assent before taking a deep breath, centring her thoughts. Casting around with her eyes, she spots a discoloured patch of carpet inches from Namjoon’s foot and keeps her gaze there. 

It’ll be easier to get this out without trying to make eye contact.

One more deep breath and then she begins, slipping easily into lecture mode.

“The First Wizarding War began in 1980, spearheaded by the Dark Lord, Lord Voldemort, a blood-purist who wanted to create a pure society. To understand the Wizarding War, you need to understand the different castes in wizarding society. You have purebloods, those who have two magical parents and as their name suggests, are considered to be the most ‘magically pure’. Then there are half-bloods, those with one magical parent and one non-magical, or muggle-born parent. And finally there are muggleborns, now known as First Generations, which basically means a child born to non-magical parents. We now believe that First Generation children are descended from squibs, children born to magical parents with no magical ability of their own, but at the time of the First Wizarding War, muggleborns were considered lesser. Bigots used and continue to use the term  _mudblood_  instead of muggleborn, as some purebloods believe that muggleborns have dirty blood.”

Hermione looks up and finds that most of her audience is staring at her with a mixture of horror and disbelief. All of her audience except Namjoon, who is staring at her … arms?

Following his gaze, Hermione finds she is clutching her forearm, hand clamping down over old scars. Flustered, she lets go as if burned, instinctively twisting her wrist in a way that activates the holster that never leaves her upper arm, wand dropping down to land with a  _thunk_  in her palm. The familiar weight is a comfort all on its own, the memories no longer feeling as heavy or present with the reassuring warm, vine wood in hand.

“Purebloods, half-bloods, muggleborns. This is sounding a little like a dictator gearing up for genocide,” Jin muses, and Hermione is grateful for the distraction.

“You’re not wrong,” she sighs, turning her wand over in her hands, absently noticing the little nicks and chips in the length of wood. “Voldemort wanted to create a pure society, one in which purebloods ruled over the lowly half-borns and in which muggle-borns were eradicated. Anyone that dared raise their wand against him died, often a gruesome death, to send a message to the rest of the magical population. They were dark times, some of the darkest in our history, a darkness that was only abated ten years later, when a prophecy predicting the fall of the Dark Lord was given.”

Hermione takes a deep breath and in a monotone voice repeats the cursed prophesy that led to so much suffering and pain.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches … born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies.” 

Chilling silence meets her words, but she doesn’t look up, steaming on ahead.

“The prophecy could have referred to two children, Harry and another boy in our year, Neville Longbottom. Both families went into hiding, trusting their inner circle to keep their location safe. On the Halloween of 1998, the Potters were betrayed. Voldemort walked right into their ancestral home and murdered Harry’s parents. When he went to kill Harry, the curse rebounded and obliterated Voldemort’s body, leaving naught by a lightening bolt scar on Harry’s forehead and making him the most famous wizard of modern times.”

“For not dying?” Jimin asks caustically, disbelief clear.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees Hoseok, lips tugging down into a frown, mouth opening to scold, and intervenes before this conversation gets even more derailed.

“For surviving the Killing Curse,” she says, tone even, channelling her inner Luna, striving for the serene way the other girl states information, completely composed and unruffled. It doesn’t work, not fully, but it makes the words easier to say, eases the tension coiling in her gut, allows her to push through her growing sense of unease and past the memories that are straining against her shields.

“I can hear the capital letters, this Killing Curse, what makes it so special?” Yoongi says over the top of Jimin who had opened his mouth. The younger boy subsides with a pout, turning to listen to the answer.

“Magik is a vast and wondrous thing, capable of performing miracles. And like anything, there’s a flipside, where people use magik to do terrible things. In Wizarding society, we have three curses known as the Unforgiveables. Use of any one of them will land you in Azkaban, hence the title – using them is completely unforgiveable as they are some of the darkest, strongest and most sinister magik there is.” 

“Unforgiveables?” Taehyung scoffs, laughing uneasily. “They sound ridiculous. Oh look out it’s the Unforgiveable Curses! Beware!”

The younger two giggle nervously and her already frayed nerves _snap_. 

“The Imperius Curse gives the caster complete control over their victim,” she says softly, something ruthless and savage singing in her veins. The boys recoil, staring at her with barely restrained horror and she knows she needs to calm down, knows that she is overreacting to a poorly timed joke, but she can't see past the memories of war flooding her vision, classmates, school children torn down by flashes of traffic coloured spell light. “I could cast it on you right now and make you slaughter your bandmates before taking your own life and you wouldn’t be able to lift a finger to stop me because you wouldn’t want to. Every thought and worry would be wiped away, leaving you feeling relaxed and carefree and you would do my biding, happily, right up until I lifted the curse and you saw what you’d done. At that point you’d probably kill yourself willingly without even the need for the curse.”

As she speaks, she keeps her eyes trained on Taehyung, watching as his face turns first red, then ashen tinged with green and, by the time she’s finished talking, he’s shaking, face tight with fear. 

“Hey now—” Namjoon begins, voice panicked, sitting up quickly in protest.

“Or,” Hermione raises her voice slightly, cutting the man off before he can get started, not feeling particularly merciful,  _compelled and pushed along by memories of Neville's face in DADA class as the spider writhed on the desk, of being held under the cruciatus for what felt like hours at a time, of a shrill manic cackle and demands about a sword._ “Perhaps you would prefer the Cruciatus Curse? Excruciating pain bottled in a curse, the cruellest of tortures. It feels like every nerve in your body has been set on fire, whilst your skin is slowly peeled away inch-by-inch. Time moves so slowly whilst you’re under it, seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours and the pain just goes on and on and on until you feel like your brain has turned to mush and is going to dribble out your ears, and think you can’t possibly take another moment of it, that you’ll go mad from the pain. Held under long enough and your mind will snap, the pain too much for too long a period of time. During the war, it was one of the Death Eaters favourite tactics. Those who were lucky escaped, some with permanent nerve damage, others with a fear of red lights.”

“And which are you?” Yoongi says suddenly, drawing the entire room’s attention.

“Excuse me?” Hermione blinks, startled, and then blinks again when the colours around her sharpen in focus, become brighter, more real. 

 _Cleo had been closer than she thought,_ she realizes, focusing on other changes that had crept up on her without her notice and forcing them back. 

"Which are you?" Yoongi says again, drawing her attention. "The type who suffers from permanent nerve damage, or the type who has a lasting fear of red lights?"

The boy follows his question with a pointed look at her middle. Glancing down, Hermione grimaces when she spies the tight grip she has on her arm, the way she has clamped down over old scars, the way she cradles the limb protectively against her stomach. 

Licking her lips, she looks back up and meets the eyes of the group.

“Both,” she says quietly.

She expects Yoongi to look victorious, maybe even triumphant at the admission, but he just looks sickened. 

“And Harry?” he says.

Hermione just smiles sardonically. 

“The leader of the rebel forces, the martyr of the light and a boy with a saviour complex a mile wide? Undesirable number one during the war, with a bounty in the hundred thousands? He was either the direct target of the curse or he took it for others more times than I can count. I doubt the fear of red lights even registers on his trauma scale with all the other shit he’s been through.” 

Yoongi closes his eyes, a deeply pained look on his face. Hoseok crowds closer, draping an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in close. 

And suddenly Hermione is so very tired.

Tired of being angry.

Tired of the world heaping shovel after shovel of shit on her brother.

Tired and weary and exhausted, right down to her bones in a way she hasn’t been since the war ended.

“I’m sorry,” she directs her apology at Taehyung. “I shouldn’t have snapped. You brought up bad memories but that’s no excuse for the way I reacted.”

“I’m sorry too,” the boy mumbles, wiping at his face with his sleeve. “I didn’t mean to make fun of you, but it all sounds so silly.”

“It does sound silly,” Hermione admits, thinking back to being a little firstie, filled with wonder at the new world she had been thrust into. Of how everything had seemed so fantastical before the glossy layer had been peeled back to show the less than glamorous facade underneath, of thinly veiled racism and a stagnant society too afraid of change to move forward.

“Noona?” Jin says, drawing Hermione’s attention making her frown.

“You don’t have to be so polite you know?" she points out, aware that under the Korean honorific system, and as one of the youngest in the room, the level of politeness directed her way is highly unusual. "I’m only ten months older than Harry. You can use my name." 

“It would help if we knew your name,” Namjoon points out, and Hermione is appalled at her lack of manners.

“Scary-noona might be accurate but Jin-hyungie says its impolite,” Jimin says snidely from where he’s wrapped protectively around Taehyung and Jungkook.

“Jiminie!” Jin looks horrified.

Hermione has just enough time to be thankful that Ginny is back in England – the thought of her meeting Jimin is mildly horrifying, the pair would wreck havoc. 

“No, it’s okay,” she says out loud, standing up to introduce herself properly. “Hermione Granger, muggleborn, one third of the Golden Trio, pleasure to meet you.”

\---

“You’re Mia,” Namjoon hears himself say, realization sweeping over him like a bucket of icy water dumped over his head.

“That would be me,” the only woman in the room acknowledges, waggling her fingers in a half-hearted wave.

Namjoon knows the others are just as shocked as he is, wonders if they’re also trying to reconcile Harry’s fond retellings of a warm and comforting older sibling with the formidable woman in front of them. Now that he knows, the savagely protective way Hermione has operated in her dealings with the band makes a startling amount of sense. If anyone had treated any of the boys the way they had treated Harry, he doesn’t think he would be half as restrained as the woman standing in front of him. 

“Mia-noona?” Jungkook says, and Namjoon watches as the woman startles when she takes in the large doleful eyes aimed her way by their youngest. He and Jin had often joked that Harry and Jungkook could pass as brothers, skin colour aside, what with their matching heads of dark messy hair, inherent curiosity and penchant for causing mischief. He wonders who the woman is seeing as she stares at the maknae, wonders if she sees the resemblance too and, because he’s looking for it, he sees the exact moment her resistance crumbles.

“Yes Jungkook-ah?” her tone is gentle, warmer than it had been the entire time she had been here. She seems comfortable with the Korean honorific system in a way that few foreigners are, and Namjoon recalls Harry mentioning Mia had tried to teach him about it.

“What’s the Killing Curse and why’s it so important that Harry survived?”

Namjoon winces at the question, feels Jin do the same next to him, and peers over at the woman to see how she reacts.

Hermione flops back onto the couch letting her head hit the cushions, as if the very question had sucked away her remaining energy. A deep sigh expels the air from her lungs in a tiered whoosh, and she suddenly looks much older than her twenty years.

 _That’s not good,_ he thinks grimly, reflexively shifting to hold his soulmate closer. Jin cuddles in, tucking himself further into the embrace. A quick glance around the room shows the others are reading the woman’s reaction the same way, the trepidation radiating from his bandmates clear in the way they clutch at those closest to them, as if bracing for a blow. His gaze is drawn back to Hermione as she sighs a second time, and then, without taking her eyes of the ceiling she starts talking, voice falling into the easy cadence of those familiar with teaching, lecturing, of sharing information.

“The Killing Curse does exactly what the name implies, provides instant and painless death to those hit. A flash of green light and you’re just  _gone_. There’s no counter curse and no magical shield strong enough to negate it. Until that Halloween,  _nobody_  had survived the killing curse. Nobody. Except Harry,” the smooth cadence stutters, her voice breaking and she stops for a long moment before gathering herself. “At the tender age of one, Harry became one of the most famous wizards of modern times. Lauded as the ‘Boy Who Lived’, hailed as a hero before he could even speak.”

“How did he survive?” Yoongi’s voice is hoarse, cracking with suppressed emotion 

“How’s not particularly important, though if you want to know, our old Headmaster hypothesized that it was the power of his mother’s love and sacrifice that protected Harry,” Hermione says.

Eyes narrowing, Namjoon considers that, considers the mocking tone, the eye roll at the end of the explanation, all pointing at there being something more to this than she’s saying.

“You don’t believe that,” he says, making Hermione look over at him.

“No I don’t,” she admits freely. “Lily was an amazing witch, but she could hardly have been the only mother to sacrifice herself for her child during the war, yet Harry is the only one who survived. It’s statistically unlikely and highly improbable." 

“What do you think happened?” Namjoon probes, truly curious. From the little titbits of information they have gathered from Harry and his own observations of the woman herself, it’s clear she’s a scholar, an academic. Frightfully intelligent, with a keen mind that liked to analyse data and pick apart theoretical frameworks. Given her close relationship with Harry, she would be more motivated than anybody to figure out the truth of what happened that night.

“Personally, I think it’s more likely that Lily had been dabbling in ancient magiks far more powerful than any of us could ever comprehend. The scar that made him so famous bears a striking resemblance to the sowilo rune for guidance and success, which if she combined it with the tiwaz rune for sacrifice of the individual for the whole —” 

He watches the way she lights up, words bubbling over as she talks about what is clearly her passion, and then watches that same spark die and fizzle as she forcefully cuts herself, “Sorry, runes are kind of my thing, I could talk about them all day but we’re getting off topic.” 

He wonders … how many people had ignored her or told her to shut up in the past for her now to cut herself off so forcefully, to apologize for getting excited about a topic that clearly interests her. 

“What’s important,” Hermione continues, straightening from her slouch, an almost embarrassed air clinging to her. “Is that Harry survived and that he became an idol overnight.”

“Idol is a strong word,” Jin objects. 

Namjoon is unable to see his bonded’s face but a glance around the room shows the others nodding in agreement. He wonders if Hermione is aware of the particular connotations of the word in Korea in particular. 

Looking at her grim face he suspects she does. 

“Idol is the only word that comes even close to the fervour that griped the wizarding nation,” she says, flicking her wand absently.

Namjoon watches transfixed as a golden light flows from the tip of the wood, in awe despite himself at the casual display of magic. Tendrils of light sinuously gather into a ball before shifting to form a crowd of people. Despite the lack of sound, its clear they’re celebrating from their jubilant expressions and the way they hug each other and dance.

“While baby Harry was left with his maternal family, wizards all over Britain drank in his name. The inevitable baby boom that occurred after the war saw a flood of children named after him, books were written about him, figurines and anything with his likeness sold out in minutes. Statues and monuments were erected championing the Potters and baby Harry. There wasn’t a wizarding child who didn’t know his story. He was revered as a hero, hailed as the saviour of wizard kind.” 

The light shifts with Hermione’s narration, showing a baby left on a doorstep, tankards clinking together, books entitled  _The Extraordinary Adventures of the Boy Who Lived_ stacked in window displays, and statues of an angelic baby with a lightening bolt displayed prominently on its brow. 

“Fast forward ten years and Harry received his letter inviting him to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

The light warps in on itself before showing a little boy dancing as a wave of letters rain from the sky, only to reform into a crest of some kind. Namjoon can just make out the image of a lion, snake, badger and raven before the light shifts again to show a castle built into the side of a cliff.

“There he meets me and Ron and the rest of the gang and we spend our years learning as much as we can despite, or maybe because of, the mortal peril we inevitably found ourselves in year after year, as Voldemort tried to regain a mortal body.”

The light flickers again before rapidly shifting through a series of images. Two boys and girl fight a lumbering figure that reminds Namjoon of the ogres and trolls from his mother’s old fairy-tale books; a classroom filled with students clutching what looks like quills rather than the anticipated pens; a wall of fire; two glowing yellow eyes; a dragon spewing flame; a supernaturally large dog.

“Wait, I thought he was dead?” Jin interjects and Namjoon drags his gaze away from the spell light at the interruption. His eyes narrow as he realizes Jin is correct.

Voldemort was destroyed when Harry was a baby.

How could he be the villain of this story ten years on?

Something doesn’t add up.

An unladylike snort bubbles from their guest, who doesn’t even try to hide it. 

“You and the entirety of the wizarding world,” she deadpans, before answering properly, “It turns out Voldemort had made horcruxes, vile magic that splits the soul through human sacrifice. He had six. Six tethers tying him to this earth. In order for him to be truly defeated, they needed to be found and destroyed. 

The more he hears, the more fantastical it all seems, like something out of a story book. But the story is too convoluted and yet still completely coherent in a way a fabricated story wouldn’t be, and he’s forced to face the reality that the woman in front of him has literally been through a warzone, has been fighting for her life since she was eleven.

“But we’re skipping ahead,” Hermione says distractedly, shaking her head as if to clear it. A flick of her wrist and the spell light wavers before morphing into what appears to be a graveyard.

“In our fourth year, Voldemort’s minions kidnapped Harry, and, using an ancient ritual that involved Harry’s blood, restored his body.” 

The spell light shows a form rising from a cauldron, a skeletally thin figure with almost reptilian features, thin nostrils and pupils slit like a snake.

“Fifth year was a mess. Voldemort had gone to ground and the Ministry, our government, used the media to paint Harry as a madman for daring to speak the truth and trying to warn people that Voldemort was back. Harry, Ron and I formed a secret defence association when it became clear that no authority was going to help us prepare for the war-zone our futures would almost certainly become." 

The spell light shifts again, media headlines appearing declaiming Harry as The Boy Who Lies; children of various ages using their wands to call mystical animals to life in a flicker of mist; a wicked looking quill and scarred hands; a scroll of parchment labelled DA containing a list of names. 

“It’s also the year we realized that Voldemort and Harry shared a mental connection, a connection of which the former took ruthless advantage of to lure us to the Ministry of Magic. He was in search of the prophecy orb, for no one except Dumbledore and the one who gave the prophecy had ever heard it in full. It was the year Harry learned of his fate, his destiny, that he was the Chosen One.”

The spell light shifts again, showing a room filled with shelves and shelves of hourglasses and what looks like brains in jars; masked figures in hoods and trailing robes attack a group of teenagers; fiery letters transcribing the prophecy in full float in the air" 

“From there things only go worse. Voldemort saw little point in hiding after being exposed and the Second Wizarding War began in earnest. It was open season on muggle-borns. A student led Death Eaters into the castle where they attacked the staff and killed our headmaster. That was the year we learnt no where and no one was safe.”

The images take on a darker tone, headlines declaring entire families vanishing or reporting on their deaths; an elderly man falling to his death from what looks like a tower; what looks like a battlefield and tiny figures cowering away from spell fire.

Whilst her voice is steady and her tempo remains unchanged, its clear to Namjoon that Hermione is rushing through the very outlines of the story, giving them the bare bones so they know the horrors that had been faced, but not labouring over the details. From the little she’s telling them, he can see why – the atrocities she must have faced would surely have left their own mental scars and he wonders at the strength it must have taken and continues to take to be able to walk away from that and still be a functioning person. So much of Harry’s behaviour makes sense in light of this information. The way he would sometimes look older than his years; the nightmares and the way he flinched from sudden movements; the almost wary way he approached adults; the scars that covered his body and the way he often took charge of a situation, used to being the leader.

His heart aches for the pair of them, Harry and this child soldier in front of them.

A glance down at Jin tells him that his bonded is seconds away from bundling the woman into his arms and Namjoon just knows that they’ll have added another to their group at the end of all this. Settling further into the couch and tightening his hold on Jin, he turns back to the woman in front of him.

As he tunes back into the story, he finds he doesn't mind that thought as much as he imagined he would.

\---

Hermione takes a deep breath before continuing the story, desperate to be finished, ready to stop picking at old memories and nightmares she had striven to bury. 

“This all culminated in the Battle of Hogwarts in our seventh year. Voldemort knew Harry was at Hogwarts and he ordered every Death Eater and creature that had pledged loyalty to him to attack the school. We weren’t ready. We were children forced into a war that we had no hand in making. But we answered the call to arms and we fought for our school, for our  _home_. _”_

Hermione stares blankly at the ceiling, unable to watch the spell light re-enact her worst memories, remembering the terror that came with watching her school become a battlefield, the horror of watching classmates and family fall to the wave of Death Eater fire, the panic that coated her tongue and scorched her lungs.

“And then Voldemort offered an ultimatum. A ceasefire that would end with Harry handing himself over, or the slaughter of everybody within the castle." 

She hears a sharp inhalation to her left, the horror an almost palpable force in the air around them, but she plows on, determined to finish.

“And that’s when we found out. Voldemort had seven horcruxes, not six like we had thought. The night he failed to kill Harry as a baby, a bit of his soul split off, attaching itself to Harry, making him the seventh and final horcrux. It explained everything really, the way Harry could sense when he was near, the mental connection, the dreams and visions – all of it suddenly made sense and we knew. In order for Voldemort to be defeated, Harry had to die.” 

“No.”

It comes out as a choked sob and Hermione forces herself to look at Hoseok. The boy is clinging to his partner, tears streaming down his face but he’s shaking his head in denial, “He was your brother, how could you give him up?”

The words, echoes of her own darkest thoughts, hit hard.

“I didn’t, I wouldn’t,” she stammers, reeling from the verbal blow, cringing when she hears how hollow her words are, lacking in conviction. She closes her eyes, takes a deep, shuddering breath. Focuses all her considerable will on absorbing the hit, tucks the hurt away with the ease of years of practice, and forcers herself to face the accusation head on. 

“But I may has well have,” she admits, the warmth on her cheeks a sure sign that she’s crying again. “I was with Ron. Fred, his older brother had been injured but the school nurse was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who needed treatment.” 

She suddenly  _needs_  them to understand, needs them know the horror of what they faced, the awful reality of children asked to fight in a war that wasn’t theirs, of running scared, of bloody hands and children screaming in agony.

“Hogwarts was never intended to become the battlements for a sustained warfront. It was a school, a place of learning that should have been  _safe_. We had enough warning of the coming attack, just enough time to evacuate the youngest students, those under age and those who didn’t want to fight. But we were utterly unprepared for the war that was brought to our doorstep. A handful of activists, teachers and students barely out of seventh year made up the so-called army of the light in that final battle.”

She laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound, derision turning the sound sharp and cutting like shattered glass.

“Stunning spells and Body-bind jinxes and school-yard hexes do little against bone-shattering curses, dark creatures and the Unforgiveables. Children were cut down, never to stand again, the number of causalities and wounded were astronomical. During the armistice, those who knew even the basics of healing magik became our medics and healers. We bandaged our wounded, sat with the dying and consoled the living.”

“I thought I had more time,” her voice cracks, overwhelmed by the memories. “I thought that Harry was  _safe_. But I should have known better. Harry has always been the best of us, the bravest and most selfless, with a saviour complex the size of the Thames.”

“People were dying, people we grew up with, who we had shared dormitories with for years, and it should have been clear that Harry would never sit idly by and let it happen, given the slightest indication that he could stop it. I should have known better,” her voice is little more than a whisper as she berates herself, but in the silence of the room she knows they others can hear her perfectly fine.

“I didn’t think, but if I had, I would have knocked him out and tied him up so he couldn’t move, the  _stupid_  boy,” she dashes the back of her hand against her cheek, choking down the sobs that are building in her chest.

“But I didn’t think. The smartest witch in my generation and I didn’t  _think,_ ” a shallow sob escapes and her eyes close briefly.

“You were a child,” Namjoon says, making her open her eyes again to look at him through blurry eyes. The man’s voice is thick with tears, but still gentle, so god damn gentle as he continues, “You were a child facing impossible things, it should never have come down to that and it should never have been your responsibility. You did the best you could with what you had, it wasn’t your fault Hermione.”

She yearns to believe him, desperately wants to sink into the comfort he offers, but knowshe’s wrong. 

“I’ve been responsible for Harry since we were eleven and he threw himself in to the path of a raging mountain troll to protect me. Me a girl he hardly knew and barely tolerated,” she retorts, scrubbing viscously at her cheeks. “To anyone who knew Harry, it should have been bleedingly obvious what he would choose when faced with an ultimatum like that. I didn’t give him up but I did nothing to stop him from doing so himself. Harry snuck out of the castle and walked to his death willingly. He died. For how long, nobody really knows. But he did die.”

Merlin she hates crying, knows she probably looks a fright right now. She’s not a beautiful crier, like the actresses in the movies from her youth, but more of an ugly sobber all red nose and ruddy cheeks and wetness. She can’t bring herself to care all that much for making herself so vulnerable in front of these people. She chances a glance over at Yoongi, who is ashen at the confirmation of what must be his worst fears. Hoseok is leaning heavily against his shoulder and it looks like Yoongi is the only thing holding them both upright.

“How?” Jin croaks and when she looks over, she finds the older male tucked into Namjoon’s side, looking small. “How did Harry come back?”

“Come back is a good way to think about it,” Hermione says, nodding in his direction, utterly grateful for the lifeline, to be able to steer the conversation toward safer ground. “In the ritual to get back his mortal body, Voldemort made a critical error. The blood he took from Harry created a tether, a pathway for Harry to find his way back to us.” 

She tries to smile but it feels more like a grimace so she stops trying.

“Long story short, after that Harry defeated Voldemort and became the Man Who Conquered. The media went insane, Harry decided he’d had enough of fame and cast a soulmate location spell, which led to Korea. Ron and I followed him, as we have since we were eleven and just firsties, and he found you guys. Harry has always been desperate to find his soulmate—” she cuts herself off and looks back at Yoongi and Hoseok.

“Soulmates,” she corrects herself, acknowledging for the first time the pair of them and their role in Harry’s life. “The knowledge there was someone out there who would one day love him for him, not for his titles or money or fame, I think its what got him through the war, gave him a reason to come back." 

The boys look dazed and shaken. All of them are red eyed and they cling white knuckled to those closest to them, desperation wrapped in reassurance brought about by the physical closeness and multiple points of bodily contact, that proves their family is still with them. A glance over at the spell light shows a map of Korea surrounded by a pulsing love heart.

Rolling her eyes she flicks her wrist and the spell light winks out of existence.

“I won’t apologize for my actions, because I’m not sorry,” she says into the sudden silence. She has never believed in white lies and she refuses to start now. “Harry is my brother and I will always do my best to protect him. You fucked up, really badly, and you have so much work in front of you to fix things. But,” she pauses, her gaze flicking back over to the two boys who are Harry’s soulbonded. “I’ll help.”

Stunned disbelief greets her words and Hermione almost wants to laugh at the expressions surrounding her, but she knows that her introduction to these boys has been anything but pleasant, and she supposes that this must seem like quite the turn around. She thinks of Harry, back at home, the light that used to shine so brightly extinguished, the slump of his shoulders and the crushing air of defeat. She would do anything to see him smile, knows that he deserves this, if the two men are genuine in their remorse, which they appear to be, it would take incredibly skilled actors to portray the range of emotion these two have in the short time she’s known them.

“I want my brother to be happy,” she explains, hoping that the explanation will be enough to convince them. They wont get close to Harry without her help and she suddenly wants to resolve this situation then and there. “When this whole misunderstanding is cleared up, maybe you both will be the ones that can make that happen. But understand, if you hurt him, I’ll make sure you never see him again.”

“We wont,” Yoongi vows firmly, echoed by Hoseok mere moments later.

“See that you don’t,” Hermione says, equally firm, a steely glint in her eyes. “Because we’re going to have one chance to fix this. Come here you two.”

“Excuse me?” Hoseok peels himself away from Yoongi, expression doubtful. 

“Come here,” Hermione repeats, waving to the space in front of her. “As I said, we have one chance to fix this and its best to do it now, while the iron is still hot so to speak.”

Yoongi is the first to move, making his way over to stand in front of her with an almost defiant look on his face. Hoseok yelps and scrambles after his partner, and the other boys make to stand.

“Good, now hold onto my arm. Don’t let go or I might splinch you,” Hermione says, focusing her thoughts on the shared flat that has become home.

“Splinch?” Jimin chirps, bouncing over with a curious expression.

Hermione spares him a glance, “A highly uncomfortable experience in which a part of you gets left behind. Trust me, you want to avoid it,” she directs the last part of her sentence to the two in front of her.

“Wait,” Namjoon protests, appearing to cotton on to what she’s planning.

“I don’t have the capacity to take you all with me and this needs to be done now,” Hermione says, cutting him off before he can protest further. “We’ll be back in a jiffy and you can all apologize together.”

“Prepare yourself, he’s going to be a mess,” she warns Yoongi and Hoseok before focusing her magik.

Yoongi and Hoseok share a look, tightening their hold on her arm and she takes that as all the permission she needs. The protests from the others are drowned out by the sensation of her magik igniting, the familiar feeling of being sucked through a tube taking over and the three of them disappear with a  _crack!_  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! 
> 
> Firstly, sorry it's taken so long to get this chapter out - it kept growing in size and scope and I had trouble wrangling it into something coherent and cohesive. But hopefully, it was worth the wait!
> 
> As always, thank you to everyone who commented and left kudos, y'all are my inspiration. I treasure each and every one as the precious gifts they are so thank you so much, love and muchos gratefulness your way!
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Harry sits on the couch, coaxing his magik through the set of meditative exercises Madam Pompfrey had once assigned him. He’d never had the patience or ability to sit still long enough for standard mediation practices to be useful. These exercises had elements of the standard, but progression through the tasks involved each layer increasing in complexity, requiring a discipline and focus that kept him calm and engaged. The first simply called for a ball of magik to be summoned into being and for the caster to hold it steady in the palm of their hand. The next focused on the size of the sphere, altering the flow of magik at random. Progression to the next stage required the caster to make the orb pulse rhythmically in purposeful and decisive waves, expanding and contracting in size to mimic air entering and exiting the lungs. He‘s currently on the seventh exercise, manipulation of colour, quietly layering increasingly intricate patterns throughout the orb, totally absorbed in his task, when a loud  _crack!_ rips him out of his trance. The light he’d been manipulating winks out of existence and he’s left staring mournfully at his palm, even as he feels his magik resettle under his skin. 

“Finally,” Ron mutters, making Harry jump, _he had forgotten Ron was still in the room_. “Watching you show off was making me regret not putting in more effort during Pompfreys classes, which, totally uncool man. Bros don’t make other bros look bad.”

Harry gapes at him before protesting, “I was not showing off!”

“Oh?” Ron says with a pointed eyebrow tilt and a grin. “What do you call it then?”

“Meditating you moron,” Harry retorts with a roll of his eyes.

Ron gasps dramatically and clutches at his chest, “I have never been so offended, that’s Mr Moron to you!”

“Boys?” Hermione’s familiar voice rings out before Harry has to think of a response.

“In here ‘mione!” he calls back, poking his tongue out at Ron.

The soft  _tap-tap_  of sensible ballet flats padding towards them is joined by the louder tread of heavier boots. The unexpected sound has him tensing in his seat, straightening as he eyes the door.

 _Who…_  he thinks, tossing a look at Ron who shrugs with a grimace, the 'don’t look at me mate, I know as much as you do' as clear as if he had spoken.

Hermione pops her head around the door and scans the room. Honey brown eyes fall on him and she pauses for a long moment before she platers on a determined smile and steps fully into the room, “I brought guests!”

“Who—“ Ron cuts himself off as said guests step through. “Hermione you didn’t.”

Harry barely hears him over the roaring in his ears. He forces himself to stand on numb legs, eyes glued to the two horribly familiar figures hovering in the doorway.

“Harry,” Hermione says, carefully, tentatively. “I know you’re upset—”

Harry sees red.

“Upset?” he shouts, tongues of betrayal licking at his stomach, flickering flames lapping at kindling. “I’m a little more than upset Hermione, what in Merlin’s name were you thinking!”

“Firebolt,” Hermione says simply and Harry's mouth snaps shut with a jarring clack of teeth. Brutally yanking on his Occulmency shields he lets the artificial calm roll across his senses, clearing his head and letting him think.

Back in third year, when they had been waiting in the Forbidden Forest for the events to play out a second time, they’d had little else to do but stay out of sight and talk to each other. As they crouched there in the dark, a dimly lit  _Lumos_  glowing between them, the smell of dirt and trees and growing things all around them, Harry had the time to study his friend. He remembers the icy fingers of horrified understanding that had crept up his spine then. Because Hermione had looked  _awful_. He still remembers the way the artificial light had played across her face, casting shadows across the ridges of her cheekbones and nose, but throwing the rest of her features into sharp relief. Hair that usually bristled with an energy all of its own had been limp, haphazardly tied in a bun with lumps and bumps and bits of hair that hadn’t made it into the tie sticking out unflatteringly. Deep purpling bruises had been carved under her eyes, and skin that used to be flush and soft with youth had become thin, stretched tightly over sharp cheekbones. She’d been using the Time Turner all year to get to her classes, but had anyone been paying attention to ensure she was not burning the candle at both ends, trying to cram as much knowledge into her brain as possible? Had anyone thought to explain that time could be bent to buy an extra couple of hours to sleep, to grab a bite to eat, to walk outside in the fresh air, to socialize?

He remembers the insidious little voice that had whispered in his ear then,  _who would she have socialized with? Who could she turn to? Certainly not you and not Ron, not after that last fight they had. So who did that leave to check in and make sure she was taking care of herself?_

And the horrifying realization that there had been no one _._ Hermione had had no one looking out for her, no one to coax her away from her books, to force her to resurface for meals and breaks and self-care. He remembers comparing the way he had behaved over a broomstick,  _the way he had turned on Hermione in his fury_ , to memories of Dudley screeching when somebody dared to take away his favourite toy. He remembers feeling sick to his stomach, remembers stammering through an apology that had made Hermione cry, remembers the way she had thrown herself at him in a bruising hug and he remembers the oath that had been sworn that night, the words mumbled into bushy hair:

 _“I need you to tell me when I’m being a prat ‘Mione, you’re one of my best friends and I don’t want to lose you."_  

_“I tried, but you got so mad and then everything just kept piling up and I couldn’t.”_

_“I’m sorry ‘Mione, I’m really sorry.”_

_“It’s okay,”_

_“No it really isn’t, you’re my friend and friends don’t make friends cry.”_

And then later …

 _“Can we have a sign, something that tells me I’m edging into Malfoy mode?”_  

_“Like a code word?”_

_“Exactly! You say it and I know I need to calm down and listen to you?”_

Remembers how they’d settled on Firebolt, the branding of his broomstick, the very stick he had been gifted earlier in the year that had been the catalyst for Harry turning away from his friend turned reminder to trust, to take a deep breath and listen to what Hermione was telling him.

Since then, Harry can count on one hand the number of times Hermione had used the codeword to get him to see reason.

For her to do so now was telling. 

“This is a Firebolt situation?” he clarifies, scanning her face.

Hermione nods once, short and sharp. “Yes it is. Please Harry, let them explain.”

Sucking on his lip, Harry finally gives in. 

“Alright,” he says, and watches the way she slumps in relief. “I trust you.”

And he does, but finishing the vow feels so very unlike the other times he’s done this. The act of putting his faith in his friend is usually freeing, usually allows him to relax, safe in the knowledge she had a plan. But now he’s tense, the presence of his soulmates sending waves of anxiety spiralling through him, winding his muscles tight.

“You'll listen to what they have to say?” she presses making him grimace.

Not trusting himself to speak, he nods jerkily. That seems to be what she was waiting for.

Crossing the room in three quick strides, Hermione flings her arms around him. “Thank you,” she breathes, leaning back to press a kiss to the faded lightening bolt on his forehead. “Give them a chance Harry, I truly think they could make you happy if you let them.”

Harry doesn’t have a chance to reply before she’s pulling away back, doesn’t know what he would say even if he had. 

“Behave,” she says sternly, glancing over at the two men hovering by the door before turning back to reassure him, “I’ll be right next door if you need me.”

And with that she turns on her heel and strides towards the door in a flurry of curls. She stops suddenly, hair flaring out in an arc, wrapping around her neck and shoulders as she turns back, reaching out to her bonded, “Ron, come on.” 

“I’m being summoned mate,” Ron gets to his feet with a theatrical groan, before turning to Harry. “You need me, you holler alright?”

Harry nods, nerves silencing his tongue, rendering him mute. Ron seems to understand, the ginger reaching forward to clasp him on the shoulder in solidarity before moving to take Hermione’s hand. Tucking Hermione into his side, Ron turns to the two standing in the door. From his position on the couch, Harry has a clear view of Ron’s face and he watches the warmth and affection drain away, watches his mouth settle into a grim line, can see the slight ripple of facial features and the minute flare of amber in blue eyes.

“Hurt him and you’ll regret it,” Ron says softly, a hint of Felix curling around the words, twisting them into a snarl.

“Ronald!” Hermione huffs, pushing ineffectually at his side.

“I said what I said,” Ron says evenly, glaring at the two shaken outsiders. “See that you remember it.”

“Alright, you’ve said your piece, now lets give them some privacy,” Hermione grumbles and Ron finally moves. Nodding one last time at Harry, the ginger tugs Hermione out of the room.

“You’re a menace Weasley,” Hermione berates, voice floating back into the lounge.

“Ah, but I’m your menace Weasely,” Ron can be heard saying as the pair moves further into the house.

Their casual bickering and the sound of their footsteps gradually fades away, leaving the room to fall into silence, suffocating and thick, as the remaining three stare at each other.

The pair in front of him share a look that speaks volumes and Harry bites back the wince at further proof of the already solid bond shared between them. It’s further confirmation of what he already knew: he could never be what they need. They’re perfect matches for each other, all interlocking tabs of a jigsaw puzzle that has no need for an extra piece. He would never truly fit, could never make them happy, he’s too damaged, his rounded tabs torn and jagged and broken, unable to ever be a match. His heart aches just thinking about it and he's forced to look away. The bookshelf next to him is safe, neutral ground. He keeps his gaze there, studiously ignoring the weight of eyes on his back, choosing instead to scan the shelves. He absently notes the elements of Hermione and Ron that are scattered along each tier shelving; the ink pot that rests next to a solitary chess piece, the advanced Ancient Runes textbooks that sit side by side with strategy and flying manuals, the photographs that line the shelves, showing happy, smiling faces and flashes of golden nails streaked through with yellow. 

Abruptly, he feels claustrophobic.

The room, despite being large enough to comfortably host a small dinner party, suddenly feels too small. The walls are closing in and he feels an inexplicable urge to move, to run, to get as far away as possible from the two still by the door. Turning on his heel, he makes a beeline for the couch in the far corner of the room.

When they had moved in, countless late nights had gone into the strategic placement of the furniture. Each piece had a direct line of sight to the access points of the room and were within arms reach of an exit point. 

He’s never been more grateful for their foresight.

The position of the couch ensures he is as far away from his soulmates as is physically possible whilst staying within the same room, andplaces him within close proximity to an exit, _not that he really needs a physical exit when he can apparate at a moments notice, but he can't deny that knowing he can be up, out of his seat and through the door in the time it would take them to cross the floor is a reassurance all of its own._

“Wait,” one of them calls out, panic bleeding into his tone. “Please!”

Harry stops a foot away from the couch, frozen, the panic tinged with terror and desperation triggering a memory:

_Not Harry! Please … have mercy … have mercy …. Not Harry! Please – I’ll do anything!_

He shudders, his mother’s voice twining around that of soulmate, panic blending together and forming a tether tying him to this room. Even without his oath to Hermione binding him here, he knows he is staying to hear them out.

Taking that final step, Harry slumps back into the couch and lifts his head to look at his soulmates. 

“Okay,” he says, drawing his knees up to his chest. “I'm listening.”

Yoongi steps into the room, long, thin fingers fiddling with the glinting silver rings that adorn them. A small tell, but, coupled with the way dark pine green floods Harry's nails, it is enough to reassure him that he's not the only one feeling anxious, not the only one who's uneasy about the upcoming conversation. 

“Two years ago, before a concert,” Yoongi begins, licking his lips as his gaze darts around the room, never quite settling or holding on any one object for long. “One of our coordi noonas removed my nail blackout. Within moments of it being off, I was forced to watch as raven streaked with red and gold faded away to nothing.”

 _Two years ago_ …

Harry sucks in a breath, horrified, when his mind makes the connection.

Two years ago, the Battle of Hogwarts.

When he  _died_.

“It was the worst day of my life,” Yoongi says simply. “I thought my soulmate was dead. I ordered the noona to reapply the blackout polish and I haven’t taken it off since. It was too painful to look at my nails, knowing my soulmate had died before I had the chance to meet them.”

Yoongi glances down at his hands and Harry follows his gaze. He is unsure how he feels when he spies a glint of gold decorating fingers that tremble, the band surrounded by a sea of green with flecks of poisonous yellow, broadcasting he’s current anxiety to the rest of the room. Yoongi seems to notice the trembling digits, flexing his fingers and clenching them into fists hard enough to make the knuckles pop white against taut skin.

“We have a lot of fans Harry,” Hoseok says, stepping forward and placing a comforting hand on the back of Yoongi’s neck. “And it’s unfortunately not uncommon for our more … enthusiastic fans to fake a soulmeeting.”

_To fake a soulmeeting._

Harry shudders, whole body rebelling at the thought of violating something inherently sacred in such a grotesque way. Following on the heels of his instincts is a slower, but no less forceful, grim understanding.

People can be unexpectedly cruel, due in part to their covetous nature.

“I thought my soulmate was dead,” Yoongi rasps, tears flowing unchecked down his pale cheeks. “You bumped into us on a crowded street and I thought you were a fucking  _fan_  because I thought you were  _dead_." 

Harry blinks.

Oh.

Tugging on his mental shields, he plays back their meeting. This time, he ignores the roiling wave of grief and hurt that clings to the memory, focuses instead on Yoongi’s face, and, because he’s looking, is able to catch the pain that flickers across brown eyes at his naive proclamation. He’s able to see the minute glance down to black tinted nails, catch the glimmer of longing and heartbreak before the spark of rage ignites.

Within the walls of Hogwarts, Harry had been spared the brunt of his fame. If one discounted his yearly brushes with death, his schooling might even be considered normal – he’d never been afforded any special privileges due to his so called status and he had been treated the same as any pupil by staff, _Snape had despised him true,_ _but that could be said of any Gryffindor and it could be argued that he hated Neville far more_. Students didn’t mob him in the hallways and he’d been free to do as he’d pleased during the year. In the aftermath of the war, when he had emerged with the other survivors, shell-shocked and numb but unquestionably victorious, that protection had been striped away. Venturing out of his apartment was an exercise in anarchy; people swarmed, coalescing on his position with a fervor and intensity that had been overwhelming. The other survivors, led by Ron and Hermione, had rallied around him, acting as a human shield, ensuring he had breathing space. But now, replaying their meeting at a glacial pace, taking in the tortured expression that had flickered over Yoongi’s face, now he wonders. If he had stayed longer, given the more unscrupulous time to plan, would he have had to fend off similar attacks? Would he have been forced to dodge a staged soulmeeting, maybe even multiple, like his bonded had clearly had to? And, given the alarming use of love potions and the lack of regulation surrounding the discipline, would someone eventually have thought to mix love potions with a faked meeting and succeeded?

Bile rises in his throat at the thought and he shakes his head hard, once, twice.

Now is not the time.

“I’m sorry,” Yoongi croaks, eyes finally finding Harry’s and holding, begging him to believe him. “I was cruel and awful and lashed out when I should’ve just fucking _listened_ and I am so sorry, god I’m sorry. But I understand—”

Harry watches as he stutters to a stop, jaw working furiously, eyes suspiciously damp.

“I understand,” Yoongi begins again, rubbing a shaky hand across his mouth. “I understand if you don’t— if you _can’t_ trust me again after what I did.” 

“Trust us,” Hoseok says softly and Harry turns to stare at their third.

Hoseok is openly weeping, tears dripping onto the soft grey sweater clinging to his frame, “I hurt you and I will spend the rest of my days regretting that our first touch was marred by aggression and violence, so I u-understand,” his voice cracks on a sob but he forged on determinedly, “if you can’t trust us after everything we did.”

Harry raises a hand to his cheek, remembers the blooming pain that had spread across his jaw that day in the apartment, “That was you?”

Hoseok flinches as if Harry punched him.

“It was,” Hoseok admits, voice husky with shame and grief. “All I knew was that a stranger claiming to be Yoongi’s dead soulmate had done something to him. I’d never seen him so still, so blank and I-I panicked.” 

“You thought I was attacking Yoongi,” Harry whispers, the image of Yoongi doubled over on the floor in Hoseok’s arms finally making sense.

“It doesn’t excuse what I did, nothing will ever do that,” Hoseok says. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

Harry can’t bring himself to believe, can’t trust what he’s hearing, not without _proof_. Sending out a touch of magik, he blinks at what he finds, _sincerityregretguiltdetermination._

“I can’t promise that I’ll never get angry,” Hoseok says, making Harry blink back to the present. “But I can and do promise to never lift a hand towards you even when I’m mad.”

His magik hums with the truth in the statement, the oath registering as it was spoken and a small broken piece of his heart settles back into place.

“You truly mean that,” Harry croaks, eyes wide. “Why?” 

“Because you’re my soulmate,” Hoseok says, with a mulish jut of his chin. “And because anger and aggression are two separate things and I refuse to confuse the two ever again. Because it’s never okay to use being angry as an excuse to be aggressive. Because its never okay to resort to violence with the people that you love and care about and it’s especially not okay for people like you.”

“People like me?” Harry parrots, going cold.

He watches as Hoseok falters, confidence and calm shattering like a dropped porcelain bowl.

“What do you mean, ‘people like me’?” Harry presses, heart hammering in his chest.

“I-I,” Hoseok stutters, throwing a desperate glance at Yoongi.

Yoongi takes a deep breath, “I saw you.” He says it like a confession of guilt, the way one confesses to their sins after burying the truth for a lifetime, all relief tinged with remorse, and Harry can’t help but feel lost, like he’s missed a vital piece of the conversation somewhere. 

“Saw me do what?” Brow furrowing, Harry narrows his gaze on his bonded.

“Something happened that day in Joonie and Jin-hyungie’s apartment. And well, I saw, that is I think I saw your memories?” Yoongi speaks slowly, hesitantly, eyes trained on his face, waiting for a reaction.

The realization of what the other is saying slams into him. 

“W-what did you see?” Harry inwardly curses at the way his voice comes out smaller and more vulnerable than he had ever intended and he curls his fingers among the cuffs of his jeans in an attempt to ground himself. 

“Enough,” Yoongi says roughly, turning away.

For a moment Harry thinks that’s all he’s going to say and a spark of indignation spikes through him.

But then,

“I saw a cupboard under the stairs,”

The words cut through him and Harry swallows hard, sinking further into the coach.

Fuck. 

_No._

Please no.

“I saw a little boy with pink nails and someone who should have  _loved_  him, who should have kept him safe—“

“Stop,” Harry whispers, voice hoarse, throat unbearably tight, and is utterly grateful when the other boy falls silent immediately. 

Harry’s thoughts have scattered, battered under a tidal wave of despair and the stinging lash of betrayal. 

_Those were his memories, they were private!_

And yet, the cold rational part of him is already ticking, sifting through Yoongi’s words and his own memories of the event. And he knows that a mundane would never have been able to gain access to those memories. Snape couldn’t find them when he was actively looking for memories that would hurt him. Voldemort, despite having a direct link to Harry’s psyche, had been unable to pierce his instinctive Occlumency shields, erected and enforced to protect his deepest, darkest shame. What’s more likely, Harry realizes with a flash of sizzling clarity, is that his shields had fallen under the onslaught of negative emotion and  _Harry_  had drawn the other boy in through accidental Legilimency. Yoongi would have been trapped in his memories until Hoseok had forcefully broken the connection.

Harry takes a deep, shuddering breath.

 _I’ll deal with that never,_ he decides, even as he opens his eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to see that” Harry says, trying to project a calm he doesn’t feel. “My childhood was ... less than pleasant. That can’t have been an enjoyable experience for you.” 

Yoongi and Hoseok stare at him, expressions somewhere between disbelieving and horrified and something else he can’t quite name.

“Can’t have been an enjoyable experience? Less than pleasant?” Yoongi repeats, voice rising sharply towards the end of his sentences.

“No?” Harry hazards a guess.

They were his memories after all. And though he often wishes he could forget, he remembers every single detail. He can’t imagine that living through it again, even just as a witness, would have been anybody’s definition of fun. 

Yoongi is gaping at him, mouth moving wordlessly, seemingly horrified, by what Harry’s not sure, but he doesn’t exactly have time to explore, as he is far too busy doing damage control.

“Who else knows?” Harry tightens his hold on his legs, fingers biting into the flesh of his calves even through the thick fabric.

“Just the others in the band,” Hoseok says quickly. “We would never betray your trust by telling anyone else. The only reason they know is because they were there.”

Harry bites his lip, hard, using the sharp sting of pain to keep the moisture flooding his eyes at bay. 

They know.

Bad enough that his soulmate had witnessed firsthand the truth he had carefully secreted away for twenty years. Now, now they all  _know_ what a freak he is, that his own relatives, his flesh and blood, couldn’t bring themselves to love him. 

“We don’t care,” Yoongi says suddenly, cutting through his rising panic.

Harry cuts a glance over to his bonded, takes in the fierce expression, narrowed eyes doing nothing to hide the steely glint within.

“The thought of what those  _animals_ did to you in that house fills me with rage, but I'm not ashamed or disgusted or whatever else it is you're thinking in that head of yours, could never be anything other than immensely glad and honoured to be your bonded. Your relatives were wrong,  _I_ was wrong Harry, and I need you to understand that I will spend the rest of my life showing you how precious, how deeply wanted and cherished you are if you'll let me. But," Yoongi pauses, grits his teeth and continues, "I know we hurt you, and that you may not be ready to let go of that hurt that that's okay too. We'll wait until you're ready."

His breath catches in his chest. 

_I was wrong ... immensely_ _glad and honoured to be your bonded ... precious._

The words swirl in a merry circle around his jumbled emotions and Harry doesn't know what to think, doesn't know what to feel but there's a kernel of warmth settling in the hole in his chest, sending down roots and anchoring into his very soul, a tiny grain of hope that just maybe he could have this. 

“So,” Yoongi continues and Harry refocuses on his soulmate, “ If you need us to leave we will.”

Harry feels the budding warmth shudder, the very thought of his soulmates leaving a bucket of ice water upended over his head.

“We won’t harass you,” Yoongi continues, oblivious to the way Harry’s heart stutters, the way Harry suddenly feels cold all over. “We wont chase you or bother you. And we’ll tell the others to back off. We’re not going to force you into anything and we know we have a lot of work to do to make things right.”

Silence falls again and Harry trembles in his seat.

Hope,  _for his soulmates, for the future he can suddenly see_ wars with pain,  _they're leaving again, he's going to be alone again_ , and his upbringing  _nobody will ever love you, you're a freak._ His heart is racing and his tongue suddenly feels overly large, ungainly in his mouth, anxiety swirling up from his chest and choking his words before he even has a chance to form a coherent thought or attempt to describe the chaotic feelings that are rising like a swollen riverbed. His soulbonded stare at him for a long, terrible moment and Harry feels his heart pound, a sense of foreboding and dread turning the blood pulsing in his veins to ice.

“Okay,” Yoongi swallows hard, dipping his head in a shallow nod. He turns away quickly, but not fast enough to hide the fresh tears that spill over, leaving glistening trails on pale skin. Hoseok doesn’t say anything but resignation flashes across his face, swiftly followed by a terrible grief that hurts to witness.  

 _Say something!_ his mind screams at him, but Harry doesn’t know what to say that could fix this, doesn’t have the words to make them stay.

Both turn, moving to walk out the door, and Harry feels a spike of panic flash through him.

“Please don’t leave.”

The rush of words surprises him as much as his soulmates, if the way they whirl around and stare at him is any indication. Harry swallows hard, fingers turning white where they are tangled in his pants, hating the way he feels vulnerable and exposed.

“Please don’t leave,” he says again, and even to his own ears he sounds horribly young, voice small and wobbly and cracking with the threat of tears. 

Both men start forward and Harry is unable to hide his instinctive flinch at the rapid-fire movement, the action too sudden, his reaction too deeply engrained to override. They stop immediately, freezing mere meters away, and though it’s clear they long to cross the last few feet separating them, _it’s apparent in the way their whole body strains with the effort to remain still, the way they sway forward as if pulled by a magnetic force, the way Hoseok twitches and stares, the way Yoongi grits his teeth as he forces himself still_ , neither moves. 

It seems like the world holds its breath then, the very air sucked out of the room, tension thick enough to sharpen a blade. 

Yoongi moves first, sinking into a crouch, careful to maintain his distance.

“Harry?” he says, and it’s just his name, but the open concern and warmth is his undoing. 

His defences unspooling faster than a ball of wool, Harry blinks rapidly against the threat of tears. He wants to stop fighting, wants to sink into the comfort these two are offering, wants to stop being so lonely and damn afraid all the time.

He doesn’t want to lose this. 

He _can’t_ lose this, not again.

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, lip wobbling and tears finally cascading over his cheeks as his eyes scrunch shut in shame. “I’m sorry, please don’t leave I’ll be good.” 

A muttered curse above him has him choking back a sob and curling forward into ball of misery. They’re angry, he messed up again, they’re going to leave and it’ll  _hurt_  and he doesn’t think he can do this again,  _please_ –

He’s jolted from his despair when arms abruptly scoop him up, folding him into a fierce embrace and dragging him bodily onto someone’s lap. The couch creaks and groans and sinks under the weight of another person, and then there’s a line of heat pressing up against his side. Muscular arms cradle him close in an infinitely gentle hold, like he’s handspun glass, something delicate and fragile and precious.

 _Safe_ , his thoughts hum, and he doesn’t know how to react.

He can’t bring himself to pull away but can’t quite bring himself to trust that this is real, that he gets to have this. His body makes the decision for him, tension that had wound muscles steadily tighter and tighter, draining away in an instant, leaving him limp and weak, body sagging forward. Instead of falling like his mind insists he will, he’s caught, pulled ever closer to the warmth that surrounds him on all sides. Hands rub gently along the ridges of his spine, settle protectively on the back of his neck and card tenderly through his curls.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Hoseok says fiercely, the arms around his waist tightening protectively. The words rumble through the chest Harry is pressed up against and a wave of warmth washes over him. Harry has been hugged before, his friends have always been tactile and very open with their affection, but never has he felt as safe and protected as he does right then, completely and utterly surrounded by his soulmates.

“You don’t have to be good Harry,” Yoongi adds, something in his tone making Harry crack one eye open to see the other’s face. He wonders what his own face is doing, as the other’s entire countenance softens and he reaches out to cup Harry’s cheek.“You don’t have to be good,” Yoongi repeats, catching and holding Harry’s gaze with his own, face set, eyes determined.

“You just have to be Harry, that’s enough for us.”

Harry’s chest is full, bursting at the seams with joy and a fragile hope that _he could have this, that Yoongi and Hoseok, his soulbonded, wanted him, broken parts and all, were willing to carve out a space in their picture perfect jigsaw to fit the ragged, bent and broken tabs of his singular piece._ He realizes absently that his cheeks are wet, that he’s crying again, but he can’t bring himself to be ashamed or embarrassed by the tears, not when his soulmates are warm and solid beneath him, wrapped tightly around him like a shield.

He laughs wetly when he sees the panic written across Yoongi’s face at his tears, the emotion as clear as if he had been coated in the blue-yellow tones of the emotion and Harry can’t resist. Reaching out, he snares Yoongi by the hand, pulling his unresisting arm to his chest so he can cuddle it close, even as he leans further into Hoseok’s hold.

All he’s ever wanted since he was eleven years old and first thrust into the spotlight, was to be just Harry, with no fame or expectations attached. It’s all he’s ever wanted. His memories of his Hogwarts years are stained with a longing to be normal, to fit in, to progress normally through a school year without risking life and limb. To have people look at him and see Harry, not the ghosts of his parents. During the war he’d dreamt of being an average student, of blending into a crowd and disappearing into obscurity. On the days were the stares and whispers got too much, on the nights out in that forest, Hermione sobbing herself to sleep in the corner of their tent, he had found himself wishing that Voldemort had chosen differently. Found himself wondering what his life might have been like if the Dark Lord had chosen to go after the Longbottom family and the Potters had been allowed to live. He’d always felt guilty immediately afterwards, had known that no matter how ill-prepared he’d felt, how much he resented being forced into the role of Chosen One, Saviour of the Wizarding World, he wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even Dudley, and especially not kind, loyal, Neville. After the war, all he had wanted was to forget. To forget his part in the war, to forget he ordered students, year mates,  _children_  onto a battlefield where they fought and died for him. To forget that _he_ had died, willingly given up his life to save his friends and remaining family, to forget the sterile white place and the choice he had made to come back. Only to discover that forgetting was never an option for him, that his destiny was to be hounded by the press and the masses, forced to relieve it all over and over and over again. He’d almost broken under that weight. Had chosen to flee rather than even try to bear it. And now his soulmate, the one he thought he had to give up and the one he hadn’t even known he had, are offering what he has searched for and dreamt about his entire life. 

Smiling through the tears, Harry lets that tiny kernel of warmth grow, to take root and blossom, lets himself believe that he can have this, gives himself permission to just be Harry.

They’re going to be okay, he thinks to himself, snuggling closer to his soulmates.

They’re truly going to be oaky.

\---

“Everything okay in there?” Hermione calls out, some time later. “It’s awfully quiet. I better not come in there and find out you’ve rendered them mute Harry!” 

“Everything’s fine, Mia,” Harry calls, not moving an inch, feeling inordinately relaxed.

There’s a hand carding through his hair, teasing out the knots gently, and he has to refrain from purring at the touch.

“Looking cozy mate,” Ron says, voice decidedly closer.

Harry glances up and spots the redhead leaning against the doorframe. 

“That’s because I am cozy,” Harry says, refusing to feel ashamed at being caught snuggling with his soulmates, safe in the knowledge that he had caught Hermione and Ron in far more compromising positions more times than he can count.

“I bet,” Ron smirks. “I’m almost surprised that Damien hasn’t made an appearance yet.”

“Ron,” Harry hisses, shooting a concerned look at his soulmates.

Yoongi stares back at him, eyes lidded and drowsy, but warm and trusting. Hoseok merely tightens his hold and settles further into the couch, warm hand never stopping its soothing motion through his hair.                           

“If they haven’t bolted yet, I doubt finding out about your furry other half is going to be the thing that tips them over the edge,” Ron says calmly and Harry bites his lip. “And given Damien’s nature, it might be best to get the initial meet and greet out of the way while we’re all calm.”

He’s not exactly wrong.

Unlike Felix and Cleo, who’s instincts are hardwired into the sympathetic nervous system of his two friends, responding to the first hint of danger or heightened emotion, Damien only ever surfaces through the deliberate flex of his core or when Harry is totally calm and relaxed. The first being totally in his control and thus a non issue, but the later is something that may become an issue if things aren’t cleared up now.

“Do you want to meet Damien?” Harry directs his question at his bonded.

“Do _you_ want us to meet Damien?” Hoseok counters, steady and grounding and comfort all in one.

“I think you should know what you’re getting into,” Harry says at last, moving to stand up.

Yoongi protests with a whine, making grabby hands at him and Hoseok frowns minutely but lets him wiggle free. The healed cracks of his heart seal a bit tighter, heal over that little bit more, the clear evidence his bonded want him in their space a soothing balm.

Focusing his thoughts, Harry turns his mind to his animagus form. The change flows over him naturally; silky black fur sprouts over his body and then he’s dropping down on all fours, sharp claws digging into carpet.

“You’re a cat,” Hoseok says, voice light and airy with shock.

Damien rumbles, settling down on his haunches.

 _Mate looks worried,_ _mate scared?_

Tucking his tail around his paws, he tries to make himself look as harmless as possible, 

“Well you’re not wrong,” Hermione deadpans, finally making an appearance. “More precisely, he’s a panther. It’s his animagus form.”

“Animagus?” Hoseok says and Damien flicks an ear in his direction, listening intently, but keeps the bulk of his attention on his other mate.

Yoongi is staring at him with a focus that from anyone else would have him bristling, snarling and snapping at the threat.

“An animagus is a witch or wizard who can transform into an animal at will. Every witch or wizard has the potential, but not every one has the capacity, to become an animagus.”

His mate slides off the couch and edges closer to him, never once breaking eye contact.

“Are you all cats?” 

Damien chuffs at the question but doesn’t take his eyes of his mate, who is sinking to his knees next to him and, this close, Damien can see the awe reflected in dark brown eyes.

“Oh goodness no,” Hermione laughs. “Animagus forms are determined by your personality and inner traits.”

A gentle hand buries itself in the ruff of his neck, fingers scritching softly and Damien closes his eyes in bliss, letting out a chirping purr of pleasure.

“Oh now you’ve done,” Ron says with a chuckle. “You’ll never be rid of him now.”

Damien ignores his packmate, pressing his muzzle into hands that caress and pet, rumbling his delight at the attention.

“I suppose it’s a good thing I intend to keep him then,” Yoongi says and Harry abruptly loses hold of his panther form.

Kneeling somewhat awkwardly on the floor, Harry stares up at Yoongi in shock, “You really mean that.”

“Every word,” Yoongi says.

“You’re stuck with us,” Hoseok adds, flopping onto the floor next to Harry with a sunny smile.

Harry blinks somewhat dazedly, “Stuck isn’t the word I’d use.” 

A gagging sound from the doorway startles the three of them.

Turning, Harry sees Ron pretending to barf, “You guys are gonna give me diabetes, please stop with the sweetness.”

“Ronald!” Hermione smacks him on the arm. “Don’t listen to him Harry, I think it’s adorable.”

“Of course you do,” Harry mutters, face feeling hot.

Hoseok loops an arm around his shoulders, gently reeling him in so he’s flush against his side. The chunky cable knit sweater the dancer wears looks soft and inviting, and Harry has to violently stamp on the desire to hide his burning face amongst the charcoal folds of wool, _because he is a godamn Gryffindor and he will face the awkward can of worms his meddling siblings are insisting on prying open, head on._

Tugging him infinitesimally closer, Hoseok hooks his chin over Harry’s shoulder and whispers, “I think _you’re_ adorable.” 

Harry will forever deny the squeak of surprise the admission startles out of him. Hoseok looks utterly delighted at the sound, whole countenance softening, eyes becoming dewy and adoring and Harry just knows he’s doing an admirable impression of a tomato right now. Hoseok opens his mouth to say something and Harry throws his Gryffindor pride to the wind, _because_ _nope_ , _too much, embarrassment overload,_ ducking his head and turtling into the knitted fabric. Dimly, he notes that the jumper is as soft as it looks and he shifts slightly, letting the wool glide over his heated cheeks. The crisp scent of freshly cut wood and the tang of citrus clings to the jumper and Harry inhales deeply, burying his nose further into the fabric. A hand finds his, slim fingers threading through his own and Harry peeks out of the safety of the grey wool to see Yoongi smiling down at him. He finds himself smiling back, lips tugging up in a small, private grin. For once in his life, Harry is appreciative of his height; he’s slight enough that he can nestle under Hoseok’s chin and simultaneously be completely sheltered by the broad expanse of Yoongi’s shoulders. Encased on all sides by his soulmates, surrounded by their warmth and scent, he’s shielded from the world. He feels protected, feels like he can relinquish the white knuckled grip on his Occlumency shields, feels like he can finally rest, like he can trust them to help carry the load he’d been forced to shoulder since infancy, since that awful Halloween night that stripped away all chance of happy childhood.

“Um,” Hermione clears her throat awkwardly, “I hate to break this up,” and she does sound truly regretful, but continues nonetheless, “but I know we left some very upset people back at the apartment and you should probably let them know things worked out for the best and that everything will be okay.”

“What?” Harry untangles himself enough to meet his friend’s gaze. Hoseok doesn’t let him go very far, arms looping around his waist, and Harry can’t help the little thrill that zips up his spine at the move.

“The rest of the boyband is back at the apartment,” Ron says dryly, hooking one thumb over his shoulder. “I think they’re waiting to hear how it all went.”

Hoseok slumps forward with a dramatic groan, collapsing over Harry’s back, and the slighter ravenette has to shift his feet quickly to take the rapid increase in weight. The words mumbled into the skin of his neck have him fighting back a smile, “They’re going to be unbearable.” 

Yoongi grunts in agreement. “Can you pop us back to the apartment?” he asks, directing the comment towards Hermione even as his hand tightens around Harry’s. 

“It’s called apparition, not ‘popping’,” Hermione corrects, rolling her eyes as she steps forward to do just that.

And before Harry has time to think it through, words are spilling from his mouth, “I could take you?”

The effect is immediate.

Hoseok straightens up so suddenly Harry is thrown off balance, stumbling at the abrupt redistribution of weight. Just as quickly gentle hands catch him, tug him forward into a steadying embrace. Back pressed flush against a firm chest, Harry glances up and meets Yoongi’s concerned gaze.

“I’m okay,” Harry reassures, letting the other take more of his weight.

Yoongi smiles, relieved, before flashing a pointed look at their contrite third, “Aish Hobi, be more careful.” 

“Sorry Harry,” Hoseok wrings his hands and Harry frowns. 

 _That wont do._

Reaching out, Harry yanks the other boy into a hug.

“I’m fine Hoseok-hyungie, you just startled me is all,” he says, something pleased and possessive igniting in his gut at having both of his bonded so close.

“They’re being gross again Mione,” Ron stage whispers and Harry doesn’t even try to curb the exasperated glare he aims in the gingers direction, _because_ _they were having a moment damn it Ron!_  

“Oh let them be Ronald,” Hermione hushes.

When Harry looks over, he sees her staring at them, hands clasped under her chin, eyes bright. When she catches him looking she waves him on, “Carry on, pretend like we’re not here!”

“You two are the worst,” Harry groans, letting his head thump back onto Yoongi’s shoulder. “If you could actually not be here, that would be great.”

“This is our apartment though,” Ron points out, lounging back against the doorframe, settling in with a pointed smirk.

“And it’s also my apartment and I say you should be elsewhere right now,” Harry retorts without any heat, all mock outrage and blustering bluff. His heart is too light to be truly ruffled by his friends teasing right now, though he makes a mental note to change all of Ron’s Chudley Cannon merchandise Bulgarian red with a semi-permanent colour charm in retaliation.

“Mate,” Ron says, laughter in his eyes. “How are so tiny yet so full of sass and savagery?”

Harry feels the chest beneath him shake with suppressed laughter and has to bite back a grin of his own, “I am not tiny, you’re just a giant!”

“Boys behave or we’ll never get anywhere,” Hermione says with a roll of her eyes. “Now,” she continues, turning her attention to Harry’s bonded. “Harry’s actually better at apparition than I am, so it would probably be less jarring to go side-along with him.”

While she’s distracted, Harry pulls a face at Ron, childishly scrunching up his face at his friend and the ginger’s eyes light up at the challenge. 

“Harry I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that, husband mine don’t even think of retaliating,” Hermione says serenely with an underlying hint of steel, making both boys freeze in place. 

“Sorry Mione,” “Wouldn’t dream of it, Mia.” Ron and Harry mutter sheepishly and Hermione smiles beatifically.

“As I was saying,” she says loftily, turning back to Yoongi and Hoseok, who stare at her with poorly concealed awe. “Harry’s actually better at apparition than I am. He’s probably the best person in wizarding Britain to ask given his mastery of the discipline.”

“Mione!” Harry protests, flustered by the appraising looks his soulmates cast over him at her proclamation.

Head propped on a fist, hip jutting out at a sassy angle as she leans casually back into the doorframe, she’s the picture of nonchalance, but he knows that gleam in her eye, can tell she’s thoroughly enjoying herself and can see she’s seconds away from exalting his various skills and character traits to his much too interested soulmates.                  

“Oh stop it Mia, you’re embarrassing him in front of his soulmates,” Ron chastises, but the smirk tugging at his lips and the way he drapes himself over Hermione, screams smug amusement. “You should tell them about how he never actually got his license and has been apparating illegally for years but nobody has been game enough to arrest the Man Who Conquered for something as banal as incomplete paperwork.”

“I need new friends,” Harry tells the ceiling. Turning back to the ginger, he quirks a brow, “You want me to tell them how you failed your test? In the spirit of sharing and all that.”

“I was robbed,” Ron insists. “Half a bloody eyebrow, as if anybody was ever going to notice that. It’s not like I did an Abbott and left half me leg behind.”

“That can happen?” Hoseok asks, arms tightening protectively around Harry’s.

“I did tell you splinching was a thing,” Hermione says with a shrug.

And really. 

“I have never splinched anyone, ever which is more than _some_ of us can say.” Harry states for the record with a pointed look at Ron. “Apparition is perfectly safe if you know what you’re doing.”

“We trust you. It’s going to be fine.” Yoongi cuts in firmly and wow, it’s really unfair how weak he is for these boys, how he softens instantaneously, insides melting at the declaration.

“We believe in you jagi,” Hoseok adds. 

_Jagi._

Harry’s face feels so hot he’s surprised at the lack of steam. Yoongi chuckles at him, the sound warm and impossibly fond and Harry ducks his head to hide from the adoring look on his bonded’s face. He has no idea what to do with the sheer quantity of affection aimed his way, has zero skills to deal with that, but he doesn’t think he’ll mind learning.

“Aren’t they just adorable?” Hermione faux whispers, shattering the mood completely.

“Sickeningly so,” Ron agrees, not even attempting to keep his voice down. 

“I can hear you,” Harry says loudly, glaring over at his utterly shameless siblings. “And just so you know, I despise you both right now.”

“Harry-kins,” Ron protests, voice shaking with laughter. “Don’t be like that, you know you love us!”

“Nope,” Harry decides, turning to his soulmates. “I’m not listening to their nonsense any longer, you two ready to go?” 

“Ready,” Yoongi murmurs, crowding impossibly closer. 

“Ready!” Hoseok affirms with a beaming grin and Harry smiles back shyly.

Turning back to his friends, Harry sticks his tongue out, laughing at the saucy finger wave and mocking salute he gets in return. 

 _Idiots_ , he thinks fondly, as he shifts his focus to his magic. 

“This will probably be slightly uncomfortable,” he warns even as he tightens his grip on his bonded.

Hoseok rests his cheek atop the crown of unruly curls that even now are spilling around Harry’s face, but makes no move to let go or step back. “I trust you,” he says simply.

The words pluck at his heartstrings, something tender and fragile blossoming in his chest. And he knows that his smile is probably disgustingly sappy and a little bit goofy, but can’t bring himself to care, _because he’s earnt this damn it._

Tipping his head back as far as he can without dislodging Hoseok, Harry searches for Yoongi. Warm brown eyes meet his, affection and trust swirling together. _I trust you,_ they seem to say and Harry can’t remember a time he’s ever felt this happy.

Heart impossibility full, Harry concentrates.

_Destination, determination, deliberation._

With a flex of his core and a small _pop!_ of displaced air, they’re gone.

\--- 

Standing in the hallway of Namjoon and Jin’s flat, Harry is hit with a swell of nerves. His thoughts whirl with what ifs and worst-case scenarios and he doesn’t realize he’s biting his lip until a finger gently taps at the taut skin trapped between his teeth. Mouth popping open, he stares at Yoongi.

Having gained his attention, Yoongi shifts so he’s cradling Harry’s cheek in his palm and repeats his words from earlier, “It’s going to be fine jagi.”

Footsteps thunder towards them and then there’s no more time for reassurances or panic fuelled thoughts as Jungkook bursts through the door, gaze unerringly homing in on the three of them. 

The youngest freezes for a heart stopping moment before he’s bounding forward, practically throwing himself across the room with a shouted, “Hyungie!” 

Harry has just enough time to plant his feet hurriedly and then the other boy is plowing into him. Swaying back with a grunt, he is caught by Hoseok, who eases him back to his feet and steadies him with a hand on the small of his back.

Clinging like a limpet, face buried in Harry’s neck, Jungkook chants, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Harry blinks slowly, staring down at the dark head of hair. Tentatively, he raises his arms and settles them gingerly around the younger, squeezing gently.

“Aish!” Yoongi says, aggrieved. “Be more gentle Kookie!”

Yoogni can’t find it in himself to be truly mad, the warm honey yellow and bubblegum pink that is quickly replacing the sky blue that had flooded his nails enough to curb the flicker of annoyance and anger at Jungkook’s rough handling. And yet, Yoongi can still see the bewilderment that flashes over Harry’s face, his bonded unable to comprehend the physical display of affection or perhaps the worry and concern directed his way. Yoongi is unsure, but he can tell Harry had thought there would be more yelling, more shouting and screaming, and he is forcefully reminded of a young boy, curled in his cupboard cradling his latest bruises close, unable to understand why his family doesn’t love him. He vows then and there to be more open with his affection, even though it’s not in his nature. He thinks of all the ways he can ease tactile comfort and physical affection into his interactions with his bonded, plans to shower him in hugs and gentle touches and handholding so there is no doubt in his mind that he is wanted, that he is loved, that he is precious. Glancing over at Hoseok, Yoongi can read the same burning conviction in the dancers eyes and something in his chest eases, at the knowledge  _they're in this together, they'll make it work._

Jin appears in the doorway next, out of breath, usually immaculate hair a mess. The eldest doesn’t even acknowledge Hoseok and Yoongi, focusing on Harry with an intensity that would be startling if not for the relief flooding his features. Jin crosses the room in three quick strides and wraps Harry and Jungkook (who hasn’t let go or stopped apologizing) into a hug.

“Harry-ah,” Jin sighs. “Thank the gods you’re alright.”

Namjoon is suddenly there and he wastes no time wrapping himself around Jin, a warm hand going to the back of Harry’s neck, squeezing comfortingly. Jimin and Taehyung hit the group with twin thumps, clinging like monkeys on either side, babbling a mile a minute and intermittently begging for forgiveness.

It’s chaotic and loud and suddenly, all at once, too much.

The moment Harry’s unease registers, hands are settling around his waist and pulling him out of the pile of bodies. Looking up, he spies Hoseok, a firm expression on his usually cheery mien, an expression that softens when he sees Harry staring. Setting Harry down in front of him, Hoseok drapes a protective arm around his middle and Harry can feel his magik twining around his core with a purr, feels himself melt into the embrace, safe, and calm and protected. He reaches out a searching hand and the last of his tension drains away when Yoongi grabs it, linking their fingers together.

“Hyungie! Stop hogging Harry!” Jimin whines, making grabby hands at the trio.

“Hyungie, tell Hobi he has to share!” Taehyung adds, glaring at Hoseok and Yoongi.

Hoseok hooks his chin over his Harry’s shoulder and stares mildly back at his younger bandmates. 

“Mine,” he says simply. 

“Ours,” Yoongi corrects, and Hoseok delights in the coral pink mixed with bright yellow that stretches across both of their nails. A quick look at Harry’s face confirms that he’s blushing and Hoseok can’t help but plant a quick kiss on the younger male’s burning cheek.

“Hyungie! Tell Yoongi-hyungie and Hobi to stop being gross!” Jimin howls, pulling a face at the trio.

Harry bites his lip, embarrassed, and goes to wiggle free when a growl rumbling from the chest behind him makes him freeze.

“Hobi and Yoongi-hyungie are going to be showering our soulmate with the love and affection he deserves,” Hoseok says, voice mild but with a thread of unyielding steel. “And our dongsaengs are going to shut their mouths and remember that the rest of us put up with the three of you when your bond was fresh and we were all incredibly patient and understanding despite your shenanigans and tendency to engage in PDAs the second you were hidden from the press, other spectators be damned.” 

“Good,” Jungkook says, viciously pleased. “Because if you hurt him hyungie, you wont like what happens next.”

Harry blinks at the sudden air of menace that shrouds the youngest, startled.

“Kookie?” Harry tries, tightening his hold on Yoongi’s hand. His bonded squeezes back gently and Harry, reassured, settles a little more firmly in Hoseok’s hold. 

Jungkook turns, countenance softening into something less threatening, expression earnest and solemn, “Harry-hyungie, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything back at the apartment. I should have but I was too startled by hyungie to react and I’m sorry if that made you think I didn’t think of you as a friend, as a hyungie. You’re one of my precious people and I’m sorry I let you down.”

Flustered, unsure of what to say in the face of such a declaration, Harry blurts out the first thing that comes to mind, “That’s okay Kookie, there’s nothing to forgive.”

It seems to be enough.

Jungkook flashes a bunny-toothed smile in his direction before cutting a fierce glare at his bonded, “Harry-hyungie is my friend and I won’t let you hurt him again, got it?”

“We have no plans to upset or hurt Harry, ever.” Yoongi says firmly, Hoseok echoing his words a moment later. 

“Good, see that you don’t.” Jungkook says, equally firm. 

“That goes for all of us,” Namjoon speaks up then. “Harry-ah is part of the group and we will look out for him as such.” 

There’s a chorus of cheers from the makane line and Harry has no idea how to deal with this. His emotions are a confusing snarl of tangled colours, poisonous yellow tied up in two-toned blue.

His childhood had conditioned him to believe that nobody would stand up for him. Too often teachers had turned a blind eye to Dudley’s taunting, had refused to see the bruises that had littered his skin, had blamed Harry for the carefully orchestrated ostracising of the other children. Adolescence only reinforced this lesson. Countless times he had been held up as a champion by the Hogwarts student body and wizarding media one day, only to be ripped to shreds the next. He had been expected to smile and grin and bear everything thrown at him without complaint. He had been called spoilt and selfish, been told that the safety of others was more important than his happiness. During all of this, only a select few stood by him, _Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and Ginny and the Weasley gang and the participants of the DA._ Those precious few individuals who had seen past the fame, had looked beyond the name and had rallied around him, had become part of his family. He never thought that number would grow, and yet, here they are. These boys, _from calm and measured Namjoon, to warm and mothering Jin, to rowdy and rambunctious Jimin and Taehyung, to quiet yet playful Jungkook,_ freely offering what he had sought his entire life: loyalty and protection and returned affection. Harry has no idea what he did to deserve this but he resolves then and there to hold onto these boys with everything he has.

The arms wound around his middle squeeze gently, a soft “Harry-ah?” cutting through his contemplation. Looking up, Harry meets the worried eyes of Hoseok.

Throat tight with emotion, Harry offers his bonded a tremulous smile. “I’m okay. I just didn’t think I’d ever get to have this,” he says quietly.

Hoseok visibly softens, understanding shining in his too bright eyes. The arm around his waist reels him into a tight, fierce hug.

“You deserve happiness Harry,” Hoseok whispers fiercely. “And you have us for as long as you can stand us.

Yoongi crowds closer, a line of solid warmth by his side, and Harry, Harry has a hard time remembering when he last felt so content, so loved, so completely and utterly safe, his magik twining happily around his core, his thoughts calm and still.

Peeking over Hoseok’s shoulder, Harry catches Jungkook’s gaze.

 _Thank you_ , he mouths.

The other boy’s lips quirk,  _you’re welcome_.

They’re going to be alright, Harry thinks, tucking his face into Hoseok's shoulder. 

All might not be well and there may be a lot of issues that still need to be worked through, but the future no longer looks so dark. His soulmates and friends have become pillars of strength and light that illuminate the darkness.

For once in his life, Harry looks forward to what the future may hold.

**Author's Note:**

> COLOUR MEANINGS  
> Bright Yellow (bold/lemon) = Joyful (happy)
> 
> Warm Yellow (honey) = Amused
> 
> Soft Golden Yellow (down of newborn chick, last rays of sunlight) = Peaceful
> 
> Gold = Intimate (love)
> 
> Pink (bubblegum, baby) = Fondness (platonic love)
> 
> Orange (bold) = Playful (energetic)
> 
> Muted Orange (apricot) = Inquisitive (curious)
> 
> White = Proud
> 
>  
> 
> Purple (violet) = Sad (gloomy)
> 
> Purple (plum with grape thrown in, between ashamed and sad) = Guilty (remorseful, sorry)
> 
> Magenta (bright purple) = Ashamed
> 
> Grey (flint) = Bored
> 
> Black (jet black, midnight, onyx, obsidian, charcoal, coal, soot) = Despair
> 
> Dark Purple (wine) = Depressed (devastated)
> 
>  
> 
> Green (pickle) = Disgust
> 
> Brown (burnt coffee) = Disappointed
> 
> Dark Green = Greed (ambition, jealousy)
> 
>  
> 
> Red (crimson) = Anger (mad, furious, enraged)
> 
> Red (darker than anger, congealed blood, rust) = Hate (loathing)
> 
> Hot Pink = Irritated
> 
> Rusty Orange = Frustrated
> 
> Coral (pink) = Embarrassed 
> 
> Indigo (mix of sad/surprised) = Hurt
> 
>  
> 
> Blue (sky, soft) = Surprise (astonishment)
> 
> Blue-Yellow (combination of fear and surprise, so like bright) = Startled (shocked)
> 
> Turquoise Blue = Confused (perplexed)
> 
> Blue (arctic, glacial, bright) = Excited
> 
> Sea foam (bright, cheery green) = Awe
> 
>  
> 
> Poisonous Yellow = Fear (frightened, scared)
> 
> Green (parakeet green, shamrock, emerald) = Terror
> 
> Dark Green (pine) = Worry (anxious)
> 
> \--
> 
> An exploration in writing. I wanted to explore the emotional fallout of the Battle of Hogwarts, of growing up as a child soldier because the epilogue always cheesed me off. BTS seemed like the perfect fit coz they're so tactile and loving. Hopefully I do the concept justice! Feel free to comment!


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